Be Mine or Die
by Flagg1991
Summary: Sequel to Be Mine Forever. Ten years after trying to kill Lincoln and Leni, Ronnie Anne escapes from a mental hospital to exact her revenge. Cover by Raganoxer.
1. The Escape

**A lot of people have been asking for a sequel to** _ **Be Mine Forever**_ **. I promised one but kind of...didn't feel like doing it. The demand was so high that I finally knuckled down and wrote the darn thing...and started having a blast with it. I, uh, I hope you guys like eighties slasher movies cuz that's basically what this is.**

* * *

Dr. Robert Palmer stood outside Room 34 with a clipboard in his hands and watched as a burly orderly in white helped Ronnie Anne Santiago to her feet. A short, rail thin woman with listless black hair and vacant eyes, Santiago had been a patient at Westover Sanitarium for nearly ten years, and in that time, Palmer had seen nary a sign of life in her. All day, she sat on the edge of her bed and gazed into the distance. She did not speak, did not move, and could not, he had come to believe, be saved; she was lost in the folds of her own addled mind, like a child in a dark forest, and would likely never find her way out.

Hers was a strange and heartbreaking case. When she was eleven, she experienced a mental breakdown triggered by her boyfriend breaking up with her, whereupon she murdered her brother and attempted to murder the boy. Prior to that, she displayed no symptoms of psychosis and seemed, indeed, to be a perfectly normal girl. How she went from that to _this_ endlessly fascinated Palmer, and he'd spent the past decade trying to find out _why_.

With no luck.

Presently, the orderly brought her into the hall, her feet shuffling against the floor and her gaze downcast. She wore fuzzy pink socks and a white gown with her inmate number stitched across the left breast. Her hair hung in her face, obscuring it, and if he looked into her eyes, he knew, he would see only the same dead expression he'd seen for the past ten years.

Tucking the clipboard under one arm, Palmer started down the hall, walking slowly so that she and the orderly could keep up. Doors opened on either side of them, each like the last: Heavy, metal, and boasting a narrow strip of glass through which you could see the inmates within. Some hugged themselves and rocked back and forth, others danced and twirled around like Julie Andrews in _The Sound of Music,_ and others still simply stared, much like Ronnie Anne Santiago.

The hall terminated at a T shaped junction. To the right it continued to another wing, to the left it stopped at a barred door. On the other side was another door, this one leading outside. It was not locked or otherwise guarded.

Palmer held a laminate card to the face of a black box flanking the door, and it unlocked. He slid it open and started through, but stopped when a strange gurgling sound rose behind him. He turned..,and froze. The orderly stood in the center of the hall, his hands wrapped around his throat and a strained expression his face, eyes wide and bulging from his sockets. Palmer's gaze went to the blood oozing between his fingers, and he started.

He was so stunned that he didn't realize Ronnie Anne Santiago was on top of him until she crashed into him with a frenzied shriek, her eyes dark and burning with fevered madness and her teeth baring. Crying out, Palmer lost his balance and went down, his head striking the floor. Ronnie Anne mounted him, her knees planting on either side of his hips, and attacked his face with jagged nails, raking them down his cheeks and caterwauling like a bobcat falling on its prey. Palmer's heart slammed in terror and he lifted his arms to protect himself, but she was strong, and when her nails sank into his soft eyes, he wailed in agony. He arched his back and tried to buck her off, but she held on, twisting her fingers deep in his retinas. Blood and other fluids burst from his socket and trickled down his cheeks. He threw one hand frantically out, leaving his neck vulnerable, and she struck, her teeth tearing into his jugular. He tried to yell, but blood filled his throat, blocking his airways, each panicked breath drawing it into his lungs and aspirating him.

Numbness spread through his body, and his mind started to sink into oblivion. Something cold and metal plunged into his chest, but he felt no pain, only pressure, heard not Ronnie Anne Santiago grunting and tittering to herself, but the slowing beat of his own heart. He tried to pull back from the depths, but death, he was surprised to find, was warm and inviting.

Giving up his struggle, he allowed himself to sink.

When he was still, Ronnie Anne ripped the scalpel out of his heart and took a series of deep breaths through flaring nostrils. It worked, it reallly worked, just like the voices in her dream said it would. She'd been planning this for a long time and put careful thought into every detail, but even so, she didn't think it would work.

Remembering herself, she rummaged through Palmer's pockets and found his keys, then got to her feet and hurried to the door. She looked around to make sure that she was unobserved, then pushed through into a warm, breezy spring afternoon. After ten years in a room, the sun was blinding, and she squinted her eyes at its glare.

When her vision adjusted, she saw a parking lot ahead. Palmer's car, a gold Intrepid, sat next to a pick-up truck. Moving at a half-crouch, she rushed over, ripped open the door, and climbed in. Neglecting her seatbelt, she jammed the key into the ignition and turned it; the engine caught, and she threw the car into reverse, whipping out of the spot and getting away just as, inside, a nurse stumbled across the gruesome scene and screamed.

Grinning maliciously, Ronnie Anne navigated the car through the main gate and hung a sharp right, the tires squealing on the pavement; a car swerved to avoid hitting her and the driver laid on the horn. _BEEEEEEEEEP._ She didn't hear and she wouldn't have cared if she had - she had one goal and one purpose, like a laser guided missile, and nothing would stop her.

Two miles from the hospital, she got on the interstate and joined the flow of traffic. A sign flashed by, white text on a green background, and what it said made her smile.

ROYAL WOODS - 50

* * *

Lincoln Loud, clad in dirty jeans and an orange work vest over a gimry white T-shirt, got home at three that afternoon to find his sister Leni waiting for him by the door, as he did every day. She swept him into a spine breaking hug and rocked him back and forth. "Hi, Lincy! Welcome home!"

A thin girl with slender arms and a delicate frame, Leni didn't look strong, but she was. He didn't know where it came from, but come it did, and as she crushed him against her chest, he swore he could hear his bones snapping like brittle twigs.

Exerting all of his might, he pulled back, and she responded by placing a flurry of kisses on his face. His heart clutched and he looked around. Seeing they were alone, he relaxed, wrapped his arms around her hips, and squeezed her butt. She jumped and uttered a giggle that cut off when Lincoln kissed her lips, his tongue flicking into her mouth and finding its mate. She hummed, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him back.

Just then, a voice called down the stairs, and they pulled apart in panic. "Lincy, is that you?"

It was Lola.

"I need your head again."

Lincoln threw back his head and sighed. Lola was training to become a beautician and regularly used him, Leni, and Lana as guinea pigs. Sometimes she did really well, like when she added highlights to Lana's hair, and other times she did not so well...like when she cut the top of Lincoln's ear while cutting his hair. It wasn't a very deep wound, but it stung like hell and took forever to fully heal.

Even so, he knew he was going to go upstairs, sit in a chair, and let her practice on him anyway. She helped him when he needed it, so he was kind of obligated.

Leni pecked the tip of his chin and drew away. "If it makes you feel any better, she got my toes." She lifted one foot to reveal a fresh and expertly done pedicure.

"No, it doesn't," he said, "she's actually _good_ at those. It looks really nice, though."

Leni grinned. "Thanks." She leaned in and kissed him one last time, tasting his lips like a junkie tasting a hit of crack. Lincoln flicked his tongue against hers and cupped her hips in his hands. He was starting to get hard and if he didn't stop himself, he'd take her to his room and ravish her.

"Lincoln! I need your hair!"

Sighing, Lincoln pulled away from Leni. "Alright!" he called.

"Go on," Leni said, "I need to, like, get dinner started."

Three years ago, Dad was coming home from work in the snow when a car in the opposite lane hit a patch of black ice, sailed across the divider, and slammed into the van head-on, killing him. Mom was really broken up, and all of the kids remaining at home took it upon themselves to help her by taking over Dad's many roles. Leni chose cooking and found that she liked it; every meal out of their kitchen over the past several years was one of her creations, and they were good. Lincoln, for his part, got a job with the state highway department to help with the bills.

While Leni went into the kitchen to make supper, Lincoln went upstairs and found Lola in her room, standing behind a kitchen chair with her hand on her hip. Sixteen this past January, she was tall and slim, her blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail to keep it from interfering with her while she worked. She wore tight jeans and a pink T-shirt stretched tight across her ample bosom. Without a word, Lincoln crossed to the chair and sat. Lola tied a white sheet around his neck and sprayed his hair with water. "You should let me shave your face," she said as she started to cut his hair. Lincoln hated it when she talked during their sessions because it broke her concentration. "You're all stubbly."

"No, thank you," he said. He was willing to let his little sister do a lot, but hold a straight razor to his neck? Fuck _that_.

Lola _humphed,_ took some of his hair between her fore and middle fingers, and cut it. As she worked, Lincoln allowed himself to daze. Today, he and his crew spent three hours digging up a corroded pipe on Elm Street, then lifted it out by hand because the winch broke down. His feet, back, knees, and arms throbbed with weary pain, and his eyelids fought to stay open. He doubted he'd make it much past dinner before falling asleep.

He was just starting to doze where he sat when Lana came in. Identical to Lola, she wore jeans and a gray sweater with the sleeves rolled up her toned forearms. Her crimped, dirty blonde hair swished across her shoulders as she went over to her bed. "Hey, Linc," she said and sat.

"Hey," he replied and favored her with a sidelong glance, not wanting to move his head lest Lola cut the top of his ear off again. "What happened to work?"

Lana had an after school job at the hardware store. She'd been there almost a year and loved it.

"I took today off," she said with a mischievous grin.

"She's going to a party," Lola said, "with that grody boyfriend of hers."

Lana's boyfriend was named Stuart Cook and he worked with his father at the Royal County Dump. Every time Lana had him over for dinner or to hang out (always in the living room, never upstairs...for obvious reasons), he was clean and normally dressed, but the stench of hot garbage clung to him like a bad memory. Lincoln sometimes wondered if that's why she dated him - his intoxicating aroma. Ugh.

"It's gonna be a blast," Lana said. "You should come, we can find you a boyfriend too." She grinned mockingly. Lola, despite her beauty, was single and had been since her last boyfriend cheated on her with Lindsey Sweetwater. Lola found them in a supply closet at school, his hand up her dress and her breasts hanging out. Being a proud and sometimes haughty girl, Lola did not take well to being rejected in favor of someone else, and Lincoln suspected that she was reluctant to date again lest the same thing happen.

Setting the siccors aside in favor of a brush, Lola said, "I would rather eat a bug than get a boyfriend from one of your parties. They're probably all just as gross as yours."

Lana lifted one hand. "That's why you should date one. Gross is good." Lola cocked her an annoyed look, and she blew a playful kiss.

"Not on your life," she said and swept the back of Lincoln's neck.

"Suit yourself," Lana said and got up. " _I_ am going to have fun. See you later."

With that, she was gone.

It always struck Lincoln as funny that two people who looked so much alike could be so different...and how two people could be best friends and bitter enemies at the same time. The twins' relationship was complex and confusing, and he'd given up trying to understand it years ago. "Okay," Lola said and untied the sheet, "you're done."

She handed him a mirror and he took a deep, steadying breath, expecting a hack job but finding, instead, a handsome man with a crisp haircut. He turned left and right. Even, consistent, no patches longer or shorter than the rest . "It looks good," he said. "You're getting better."

Lola preened. "I know."

He started to get up but paused when Leni's voice drifted up the stairs. "Uh, Lincy?"

At once he detected the uncertainty.

Handing Lola the mirror back, he went downstairs and froze at the bottom. A fat man with thick steel-colored hair and clad in a rumbled gray suit stood just inside the doorway, facing a clearly nervous Leni.

On either side of him was a uniformed police officer.


	2. Alone in the Dark

Guest: You're absolutely right, Lana did not play a part in the other two stories, but she does in this one.

STR2D3PO: Little known fact: Mental hospitals have top notch driving courses.

* * *

Lincoln sat between Leni and his mother, his hands clasped in his lap and his head hung. Lucy sat on Mom's other side, her arms folded over the chest of her black dress. Her dark eyes peeked out from beneath her bottle-black bangs and she anxiously chewed her bottom lip. Lily, almost eleven, sat beside _her_ , listening intently but not fully understanding what was going on.

Detective Frank Rudd sat in the armchair, leaning forward with his coat clad forearms resting on his beefy thighs. His white button-up pulled tight against his distended gut and his pants bunched uncomfortably at the point where his legs met his body. The beat cops flanked him like a guard detail, their hands on their hips and their faces stony. After working three years for the highway department, Lincoln was fairly muscular, but the police officers in his living room were bigger, broader, and he suspected, badder.

"Obviously, we don't know for certain that she's coming here," Rudd said, his voice a raspy wheeze that reminded Lincoln of rusted hinges. "It's a possibility, but we're not 100 percent sure."

The 'she' in question was Ronnie Anne Santiago. Ten years ago, she and Lincoln were as close to boyfriend and girlfriend as two eleven-year-olds can get - they held hands once, kissed each other on the cheek several times, and spent their afternoons playing video games at the arcade or doing homework together. She could be distant sometimes, and Lincoln came to believe that she didn't like him the way he thought she did.

Then, a couple days before Valentine's Day, he got a card in the mail. From a girl...a girl who _did_ like him in that way. Her name, he later found out, was Leni...his beautiful, loving, tender-hearted older sister. He accepted her, and they were happy for a time.

Until Ronnie Anne found out.

Even now, ten years later, Lincoln couldn't understand what happened. One day she professed her love to him...then beat him up when he turned her down. Later, she showed up with an ax and tried to kill him. He could get her being hurt and upset...he could even get her punching him into the dirt the way she did...but killing her own brother and then coming after him? It didn't make sense and never had. She seemed so...normal. A little guarded and hot-headed maybe, but definitely not the type to hack people up with a sharp instrument.

He never said so aloud, but it bothered him greatly to this day. He genuinely cared for Ronnie Anne, and at one point, he thought he even loved her. Breaking her heart was bad enough, but breaking her mind to the point that she would never live a normal life, never find the same type of love and happiness that he found with Leni, made him sick if he dwelled on it. He tried not to blame himself, but he couldn't help it. He did not cause whatever was wrong with her - it was lying in wait like a patient cancer cell waiting to mutate and spread - but he precipitated it. Every once in a while, he dreamed of her - in them, she was always as he last saw her, hair soaked with rain and plastered to her jagged face, eyes wide with insanity, teeth clenched and nostrils flaring. She knocked on the front door and when he opened it, she swung an ax at his head. He ducked and it missed. In dreams, he was too slow; the blade smashed into his neck and severed his head, knocking it off of his body and onto the floor. He didn't die right away, though - he was forced to watch powerless as she killed Leni next. She screamed in terror as she died, weeping and begging for him to help her.

He woke from those nightmares in a cold sweat, his heart fluttering painfully against his ribs and his stomach twisting. The next day, he always felt like he was being watched, and every sudden sound made him jump.

Once in a blue moon, Leni would have a nightmare too. He'd wake to her crawling into his bed, her lithe body shivering and tears standing in her eyes. _It happened again, Lincy,_ she would stutter pitably, and he never had to ask _what_. He wrapped his arms around her, drew her close, and kissed the back of her neck until she fell asleep again.

Currently, Mom shifted and the couch groaned under her weight. "Of course she's coming here, where else _would_ she go?" Her voice trembled with a mixture of fear and indignation.

Detective Rudd spread his hands in a bemused gesture. "I don't know. She's deranged, Mrs. Loud, and that makes her unpredictable. You can't pin down a crazy person. Given what happened, it would make sense for her to maybe want revenge, but psychotics don't always think like us. She might come here, or she might go into the woods and wait for the mothership the voices in her head told her was going to pick her up."

Lily flicked her eyes anxiously back and forth between Rudd and her mother, her hands wringing the fabric of her purple skirt. Lucy noticed her apprehension, and laid her hand on the little girl's leg. "Is the crazy lady gonna come here?" Lily asked her older sister, her low, trusting tone indicating that she knew Lucy would have the right answer.

"No," Lucy said flatly. "She's gonna make a break for Canada that way she won't go back to jail." For her part, Lucy didn't believe that one bit, nor did she believe Rudd's assertion that she might go wait for a spaceship in the forest.

On the other side of her mother, Leni's hand crept into Lincoln's and squeezed, He looked up, and her face was a bloodless mask of worry, her eyes pooled with a fear so raw and abject that his stomach folded in on itself. He weaved his fingers through hers and returned her squeeze. "It's gonna be okay," he said, hoping he sounded more reassuring to her than he did to himself; he agreed with Mom, Ronnie Anne was coming here. He could feel it like a black shadow falling over him, and dread bubbled up in his chest.

"...post a watch until she's caught," Rudd was saying. "And until she's caught, I will stay right here. If she does come, she won't make it past Officer Scott and Officer Johnson" - he gestured to the cops - "and she sure won't make it past me." He flashed a winning smile. Looking at him, Lincoln doubted very seriously that he had the strength and stamina to stop a Teletubby with the flu much less a crazed woman capable of killing two grown men at the same time.

Mom sighed and looked down at her lap, her hand going strickenly to her forehead. "I'd appreciate that," she said. She looked up at Rudd. "How long do you think it'll take to catch her?"

Shifting his epic weight, Rudd ticked his head to one side. "Eh, I wouldn't say long at all. There's an all points bulletin on the car and roadblocks from here to Ann Arbor. If I had to guess, I'd say we'll have her before the sun sets. I suggest all of you go about your day like normal and forget that I'm even here." He turned to Officer Scott and said something that Lincoln didn't hear. He and Johnson both nodded and left through the front door, their footfalls heavy.

When the door closed behind them, Rudd sat back in the chair and laced his hands over his considerable stomach. "She's probably in cuffs as we speak," he said self-assuredly.

* * *

Twenty-five miles north, Ronnie Anne Santiago dragged a dead man into a stand of bushes bordering a dirt road adjacent to the interstate. Cars whizzed past like bullets, the whoosh of the air displaced by their passage like voices, and the late afternoon sun painted the thirsty brown landscape a muted orange.

Letting the body flop back in the dirt, she knelt beside it; a small, petite man in his fifties with a mustache, his eyes glazed in death. Ronnie Anne saw him walking along the road from the highway, his truck parked to one side. She knew the police would be looking for Dr. Palmer's car and decided in that moment to kill the man and take his truck.

She dug in the hip pockets of his black jumpsuit, found his keys, and pulled them out. Next, she drew the zipper down and yanked the suit off, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was sneaking up behind her.

They weren't.

Hurrying nonetheless, she whipped the gown over her head and threw it aside, the warm air caressing her naked body like an unseen lover. She needed to be quick, but she couldn't stop herself from pausing to bask in its soft touch. Her eyelids fluttered closed and she tilted her head back, a dreamy smile spreading across her lips. "Ummm, Lincoln," she purred, her brown nipples stiffening. She brushed her teeth across her bottom lip and ran her hands slowly over her quivering chest.

An image emerged from the darkness and her budding arousal died.

It was Leni.

Her eyes flew open and her jaw clenched, her lips peeling away from her teeth in a hateful sneer. The breeze rustling in the underbrush became a voice...Leni's voice. _He's with me now, Mexicunt, and he's everything you've fantasized about and more_.

Ronnie Anne ground her teeth.

 _You can't have him, though. He only loves his sisters. Not you. You're not good enough._

"Shut up," she rumbled dangerously in the back of her throat.

 _You're too brown for him._

"Shut up," she repeated.

 _Too brown! Too brown!_

Ronnie Anne shot to her feet, the jumpsuit danging from one balled fist. Her pert breasts heaved as she sucked great gulps of air and her frame trembled like a keg of dynamite getting ready to blow. "I'm not too brown for him!" she shouted, her voice reverberating through the pasture,

Only she knew that she was. She was brown because she was not his sister, and he only loved his sisters. She didn't stand a chance. They had him 24/7 and never let him go, how could she fight that? How could she expect him to love her when they were sucking his love from him like vampires? If she was his flesh, he would lay her down in bed and love her but she was not. Her flesh was different, _she_ was different, damned to be forever on the outside while they laughed at her. Laughed and laughed and laughed.

They'd see, though. They'd all see. Leni especially. She was Lincoln's "favorite." She was the one who started this, Ronnie Anne saw that clearly now, and had for years. She knew Ronnie Anne loved him, and she swooped in to take him away from her.

Well, she was going to take Lincoln back, and she would make Leni pay for the things she did to her...for making her kill Bobby and locking her away in the mental hospital. He doesn't love you because you're not his sister, well she was going to be his sister and then he'd love her and everything would be okay and she wouldn't have to go back to the hospital because Leni would be dead and no one would listen to her evil powers anymore. ANYMORE. She had to focus and not let Leni distract her. Stay here and talk to me while the cops close in, hear them slipping through the grass? See them moving in the brush? Stay here, talk to me. Ha, you can't trick me anymore, Leni.

Casting a look around to make sure the police weren't moving in, she hurriedly dressed and pulled the zipper up. It was baggy but she didn't care. Next, she took the dead man's boots from his feet and stepped into them. Grabbing the keys, she went to the side of the road and waited to see if someone would try to stop her, then darted to the truck, a battered red 1975 Ford F-250 with a rifle rack in the rear window and two revolving caution lights on top like antler nubs. She opened the door and slid in behind the wheel; tools, gloves, a clipboard, and other miscellaneous things littered the bench seat, and trash from a thousand fast food restaurants filled the passenger footwell. She slipped the key into the ignition; the engine sputtered, coughed, then turned, music blaring from the speakers and startling her. She turned down the radio, gripped the wheel, and navigated the truck along the road, stopping when she reached a strip of blacktop that followed the interstate.

She turned right, then got onto the highway, merging in front of a speeding Mac truck with BLACK MARIA across the driver side door. A sign appeared ahead for Royal Woods, and a shark-like smile carved across her pallid face. I'm coming Lincoln I'll be your sister and you can love me you can be mine...or else.

* * *

"Do you think she's gonna come here?" Leni asked.

She and Lincoln were lying in Lincoln's bed, Lincoln on his back and Leni curled up next to him, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder and her hand on lying over his heart. His arm was around her, but while that normally made her feel safe, right now, she was still scared. Ronnie Anne was out there somewhere and even Mom was worried - so worried, in fact, that she sent Lily to spend the night with a friend just in case. She didn't _say_ that's why she did it, but Leni wasn't dumb, she could put two and four together.

Lincoln brushed his fingers up her bare arm and took a deep breath. "I don't think so," he said. "And if she does, the cops are here. It won't be like last time."

A shiver went through Leni at the mention of _last time_. Ten years ago, Ronnie Anne tried to kill them with an ax and it scared Leni so bad that she had nightmares for, like, ever. She still did sometimes; Lincy died and she didn't have him anymore, and when she woke up she was crying because that was the worst thing that could ever happen to her. Lincy was the bestest brother ever and she wanted to have his babies one day - she was like a cute little fishy and he was the water she breathed. He made her every day warm and special, and every time he held her hand, she felt like she was going to burst with love and joy. She didn't care if she died, but if Lincy died she would cry and never stop because if he died, her heart died too.

Snuggling closer, she clutched the front of his shirt in hooked fingers and held tight as if by doing so, she could keep him safe from Ronnie Anne. She didn't think she could, though. Ronnie Anne scared her so much. She was like...the bogeywoman, and ever since the policeman said she escaped, Len's heart had been throbbing like an infected tooth. Every sound she heard made her jump and each shadow glimpsed from the corner of her eye struck electric fright into the center of her skull. At dinner, her belly was so upset that she couldn't eat, and the policeman ate her food for her. "I hope not," she said. "I don't want to lose you."

Lincoln turned his head to her and regarded her with something like sorrow. "You won't," he said and kissed her forehead. "We'll be fine. Detective Rudd is right, she's probably in jail already and they just haven't called him yet."

Leni hoped so.

When a knock came at the door a few minutes later, she tensed, but relaxed when Lola poked her head in. "The sink is clogged again," she said simply.

Something was wrong with the kitchen sink and every once in a while it wouldn't drain. Lincoln had fixed it a dozen times over the past two years, but he wasn't a plumber and didn't know what the hell he was doing.

"Okay," he said reluctantly released Leni. Their sisters knew about their relationship but their mother did not, and Lincoln wanted to keep it from her, for her sake, not theirs. Life was topsy turvy enough now that Dad was gone, adding _that_ would probably put her in the ground. Normally they weren't as brazen with their affections - cuddling together in the middle of the evening like this - but if these circumstances weren't extenuating, he didn't know what would be.

He got up and Leni followed, her fists balling at her chest in a gesture of nervousness. "Everything's gonna be okay," he said at the door and kissed her cheek. "I promise."

Leni nodded, resolute in her determination to believe him. "Okay," she said.

He smiled and brushed his fingers through her hair.

Downstairs, Detective Rudd sat in the armchair and paged through a magazine. He looked up as Lincoln passed, then back down. In the kitchen, Mom stood by the sink with her arms crossed and a faraway look in her eyes. Before dinner, she tried calling Lana to tell her about Ronnie Anne, but she didn't answer, which worried Mom sick.

While he worked on the sink, she called Lisa and gave her the rundown; Lisa was in Chicago on a school trip and wouldn't be back for another three days, which should be plenty of time for Ronnie Anne to be recaptured.

Next, she called Luan. Luan and Clyde lived in an apartment across town with their one-year-old daughter Ciara. Clyde worked for Geek Squad and Luan was a teller at the bank. _Stay inside and lock all your doors and windows,_ Mom said as she paced back and forth. Lincoln knelt, opened the cabinet, and unscrewed the pipe using a wrench that he left there for just this purpose. Grabbing a pot, he sat it under the pipe and let it drain.

Why hadn't they caught her yet? Despite what he told Leni, he seriously doubted that she was in custody already. If she was, Detective Rudd would be one of the first to know. That he hadn't been informed told Lincoln Ronnie Anne was still out there, moving through the lengthening shadows and possibly stalking the house this very moment.

That thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Done with the sink, he replaced the pipe and tested it: The water went down the drain, but just barely.

Someone laid their hand on his shoulder and he started. "It's just me, honey," Mom said, "I have some paperwork I have to do. I'll be in my office, okay?"

Lincoln nodded. "Okay."

She flashed a wan smile and touched the side of his face. "Everything's going to be okay, baby." She said tenderly, echoing the encouragement he gave Leni moments ago.

"Yeah, I'm not worried," he said. In actuality, he was...very much. Rudd was wrong; there was only one place Ronnie Anne would go, and that place was here. The cops were here too, though, and despite the hulking, large-than-life pall she cast over him, he was certain that she wouldn't be able to fight her way through three police officers. The people she killed at the hospital didn't have guns, Rudd and the others did.

Mom kissed his cheek and disappeared into the living room, leaving him alone, hands splayed on the edge of the sinktop, shoulders hunched as if under a great weight. Restless energy surged through him and he drew a deep breath as he lifted his head. Through the window over the sink, purple twilight filled the backyard like black water, and stars twinkled in the deep blue sky. _Where are you, Ronnie Anne?_

He didn't know the answer to that...and h didn't think he wanted to know.

Pushing away from the counter, he went into the living room. Leni, Lucy, and Lola sat on the couch, all of them with strained expressions. That was normal for Lucy, but not for the other two. In the chair, Rudd stared at the TV, his legs crossed and one loafered foot tapping in mid-air. Lincoln started for the couch, but bypassed it at the last minute and went to the front window instead. He drew back the curtain and scanned the street, spotting the RWPD cruiser instantly: It sat at the curb on the opposite side. He squinted and made out two shapes inside. Scott and Johnson.

He tried to lift the sash, but it was locked.

Good.

He went to the door and tested the handle.

Also locked.

Back in the kitchen, he tried the window over the sink and the back door. Both were locked as well.

Satisfied, he returned to the living room and sat next to Leni, Lola scooting over to make space without being asked to. He put his arm around his older sister and she leaned into him with a happy smile. "Hi, Lincy," she said and rested her hand on his chest.

"Hi," he said and glanced at the screen. "What are we watching?"

A boy in a headband slipped on a banana peel and fell on his ass while a canned audience shrieked with laughter. _Why can't I win?_

"I dunno," Leni said and laid her head on his shoulder, "but it's dumb." She rubbed her hand slowly over his chest and giggled when he squirmed.

Detective Rudd lifted his brows, then turned back to the TV. He was waiting anxiously for the call that Ronnie Anne Santiago had been picked up. When his phone rang shortly after dinner, he was certain that it was that call.

It wasn't.

A state trooper found Dr. Robert Palmer's car abandoned in a field after spotting it from the highway and going to investigate. He also found the strangled body of man dressed in only his underwear. From the bruising on his neck, they thought she did it by hand.

That was troubling. Ronnie Anne Santiago was five-six and 105 pounds according to the teletype. How in the hell could she throttle a grown man to death? The paperwork said she was a schizophrenic, but it didn't say anything about her being fucking Superman. Then again, it also said she was catatonic...which she sure as shit was not.

He was starting to wonder if she was even crazy or not. Switching cars the way she did showed a level of forethought that you don't often see in full-blown psychos, and it bothered him. That car was their only lead, now she could be in anything and they'd never see her coming until she was on top of them.

Where the body was found told him that she was indeed headed to Royal Woods. Hopefully she got caught on the way - he transfered from Detroit eight years ago to get away from the action. He wanted peace and quiet.

Not this crap.

Maybe she wouldn't come.

Maybe she'd stay away.

* * *

Ronnie Anne Santiago turned off of Main and followed Park Place past a rush of quiet middle class houses with wide front lawns. Trees lined the sidewalks and rustled in the soft breeze. Street lamps cast pools of murky illumination against the gathering night, and Ronnie Anne watched the occasional pedestrian moving through them, sure that one would be Leni come to finish her off. None were...at least she thought. Leni played dumb but she was crafty, and Ronnie Anne wouldn't put it past her to shapeshift on top of everything else.

It was just past sundown and she was running behind. Leni made the gas tank run low and she had to stop at a BP off the highway. The old man behind the counter transmitted funny thoughts into her head, so she killed him and a woman cowering in the bathroom. Neither was Leni, but both were her agents.

At the intersection of Park and Pine, she turned left. Her old house was on the right, and as she crept past, she craned to see if her mother's car was in the driveway. It was not; the windows were dark and the lawn overgrown, which suggested that she moved at some point after Ronnie Anne's committal. She visited occasionally, but Ronnie Anne played dumb and stared into space, pretending not to hear her voice or see her tears of sorrow. It killed her to see Mom that way, and every night as she laid in bed, her hatred toward Leni for making her kill Bobby grew. _Look what you did to my mother, you bitch. YOU MADE HER SAD!_ She lost one child to death and the other to the system all because of Leni, and Ronnie Anne could only imagine how deeply that affected her.

Which was why she planned to kill her mother...to free her from her burden. Leni must have read her thoughts and made Mom move. How sadistic is that? Forcing an old woman to live with the pain of her children's demise?

Ronnie Anne's teeth clenched, and in the green glow emanating from the dashboard, her face morphed into a demonic nightmare visage. She was going to enjoy killing Leni so, so, so much.

A block past her childhood home, she came to a rolling stop at an intersection and waited for a group of teenagers to cross. She scanned their faces...and froze when she recognized one.

Lana Loud was six the last time she saw her, but the blonde, smiling and gesturing with her hands as she talked to a boy in a thermal shirt, jeans, and a mossy oak baseball cap, was undoubtedly her. Ronnie Anne's grip on the wheel tightened and her breathing sped up. _You can never be one of us,_ Lana said, _you can never be one of Lincoln's ssssssiiiiissssttttteeeeerrrrrssss._

"Shut up," Ronnie Anne snarled.

Lana and her friends disappeared down a side street, and after a moment, Ronnie Anne followed, killing the headlights. She didn't know where they were going and she didn't care - she was going to kill the Loud bitch then prove her wrong. "I _will_ be Lincoln's sister," she hissed through her teeth, her voice like the rattle of dead leaves.

The group walked leisurely, unaware of the truck creeping along behind them like a submarine stalking a passenger liner, its torpedos loaded and ready to fire. Ronnie Anne stared intently at Lana's back, willing her to fall over dead. She didn't; she laughed, shoved the boy, and stumbled when he did the same. "Jerk!" she cried, the happy inflection in her voice making Ronnie Anne hate her all the more. While she languished in a cell, Lana and her bitch sisters lived it up, sharing Lincoln back and forth like a bottle of cheap whiskey and laughing at her. That was going to change...soon their laughter would turn into screams and she would have Lincoln all to herself.

They turned down another street, this one without lights. Ronnie Anne rolled to the intersection and watched as they approached a house burning with lights. Cars were parked up and down the way, more on the lawn. Cocking her head, she detected the faint sound of music. Lana and the others crossed the yard and went inside, leaving the night to its own devices.

Coming alive, Ronnie Anne turned down the street and parked behind an Altima. She cut the engine and sat behind the wheel for a long time, glaring at the house. The music was louder here and she could make out lyrics: Dirt roads, fried chicken, kissing by the riverside, going to church on Sunday morning.

 _You'll never be one of Lincoln's sisters,_ Lana taunted.

Ronnie Anne bit down hard on the inside of her bottom lip, numb to the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth. Her fingers grasped the wheel so tightly that her knuckles turned white and her heavily lidded eyes narrowed to animal slits.

 _You'll never be his sister...you'll never be_ me _._

"We'll see about that," Ronnie Anne said.

Then got out.


	3. First Blood

**Jason Chandler: No.**

 **Jeff: Lol, that overtime, tho.**

 **That Engineer: This was heavily inspired by the** _ **Halloween**_ **movies, mainly** _ **Halloween 4: The Return of Michael Myers**_ **(1988). A lot of horror fan say it sucks, but it's probably my favorite after** _ **Halloween II**_ **(1981).**

 **Guest: Yeah, Ronnie Anne is extremely thin and anorexic looking in this.**

* * *

 **Emergency Alert System broadcast transmitted across the Midwest, April 15, 2028, 6:45pm, CST.**

 _The following message is transmitted to the request of the Michigan State Police. A criminally insane mental patient escaped from the Westover Santiatrium at 2:15 pm Central Standard Time. A doctor and an orderly were killed during the escape and several others afterward. An all-points bullinet has been issued for Ronalda Anne Santiago, twenty-one. Santiago is described as a Hispanic female, 5'6 and weighing 105 pounds with black hair and brown eyes. She is considered armed and extremely dangerous. All residents of central Michigan are advised to stay inside and keep their doors and windows locked. If you see her, alert police immediately. Do not approach her. This message is effective until further notice. Please tune in to your local broadcast or cable station for more updates_

As the last dying rays of the late afternoon sun withdrew from the world, leaving cool, purple twilight in its place, streets emptied and families across the region hunkered behind locked doors. Panic and cabin fever set in quickly. In Elk Park, an old woman placed a frantic call to police about a shadow on her bedroom blinds. _It's her,_ she stammered fearfully, _please hurry._ Responding officers found the source of the shadow in the form of a tree in her backyard. Near Ann Arbor, a man pumped six shotguns shells into a line of trash cans clustered at the curb in front of his house after hearing a strange noise. His only victim was a raccoon.

As the evening progressed, police cars cruised back and forth through deserted villages, sweeping roadside gullies with spotlights, and roadblocks sprang up on every major and secondary route in a 100 mile radius: Motorists were stopped and vehicles searched. State patrol helicopters soared through the night, and search parties lead by dogs scoured fields and forests despite the late hour. In Royal Woods, Police Chief Clifford Williams ordered a dusk to dawn curfew, and businesses that were normally open late closed. Billy "Flip" Sawyer sat behind the counter of Flip's with a shotgun across his lap and a bottle of whiskey standing next to the register. Whereas everyone else in the area dreaded meeting the crazed mental patient, Flip looked forward to it. He hadn't seen any combat since 'Nam, and sometimes he dreamed about it with a smile on his face.

Meanwhile, Ronnie Anne Santiago, the most wanted woman in the country at that moment, crept through tall grass. At a ragged tree stump, she paused, grabbed an ax whose blade was embedded in the wood, and ripped it out. It felt good in her hands. Right.

Like coming home.

* * *

On his way to Leni's room, Lincoln checked all the second story windows, starting with his and finishing with the ones in Lisa and Lilly's room. Lola sat at her vanity doing her homework by lamplight and listening to WKBBL on a transistor radio. She rolled her eyes when he told her what he was doing. "You're overreacting," she said over her shoulder, "she's a nut, not Jason Voorhees."

He tested the window between hers and Lana's bed, and it lifted. Closing it, he flipped the tabs on the top of the sash then tried again.

Locked.

"I agree with you," he said, and he did. Ronnie Anne was _not_ a slasher villain, but she _had_ killed three people in her lifetime, including two men at one time. That made her extremely dangerous. Lola's dismissive tone indicated that she didn't think Ronnie Anne was a threat. With that, he did _not_ agree...but he didn't say so. "I just want to make sure everyone's safe." He crossed to the vanity, laid one hand on the edge and the other on the back over Lola's chair, and bent over her shoulder. "What'cha working on?" he asked, not because he was particularly interested, but because he didn't want to leave her.

Sighing, she sat back and slapped her pencil to the table with a clack. "History," she said and looked up at him, then crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue.

Lincoln snickered. "History's easy, though."

"Yeah," Lola drew, "but it's _boring_."

As a child, Lola competed in beauty pageants and was, for all intents and purposes, a "girly girl." Her passions included pink, makeup, glitter, and effeminity. She was largely the same now, with the exception of her intelligence. She was always bright, but when she entered middle school, she began to show a shocking aptitude for math and science. She was nowhere near as good as Lisa (is anyone?), but she did extremely well and thoroughly enjoyed the work. Lisa encouraged her proclivities and often allowed Lola to assist her with experiments and research, which made Lola glow the way winning a pageant once had.

"Maybe," he said and bobbed his head to one side in acquiescence, "but an easy A is an easy A."

Lola rolled her eyes. "All A's are easy when you're Lola Loud."

Uh-oh. Her ego was starting to swell again. Better bring it down a peg. He flicked her cowlick and jumped back with a laugh when she tried to swat him away. "Leave me alone, Lincy," she spat in faux outraged. "You're distracting me. Go bother someone else."

"Fine," Lincoln sniffed.

Then went to bother Lucy.

She sat on her bed with her legs crossed in front of her and a book open in her lap. She looked extra goth in a black dress with a square neckline, a belt with a silver skull playing buckle, and heavy black boots. A silvery pentagram rested in the hollow of her throat and her bangs rested just above her dark, stormy eyes, which flicked back and forth across the page as she read. Music drifted from a stereo on the nightstand - a steroro surrounded by black candles (unlit) and plastic skulls. Posters of emo bands, bapmothet, upside down crosses, and other spooky things Lincoln couldn't name were plastered to the walls, and a coffin occupied the spot where Lynn's bed used to be - Lucy had Lana build it for her four years ago but couldn't set it up until Lynn went off to college. Space limitations, you know. And sister limitations. _I'm not sleeping in the same roof as a casket,_ Lynn said once, _that's_ waaaaaay _too far._ Lincoln couldn't say he disagreed.

His eyes went to the window over the bedside table and frowned at the fluttering curtains. "Lucy?"

She flipped a page. "What?" she asked without looking up.

Lincoln started to speak, but stopped when he realized he needed to be diplomatic here and choose his words wisely. He didn't want to worry her anymore than she already was, but he also needed her to understand why having her window open wasn't such a good idea.

Then it struck him.

Lie.

"Detective Rudd wants all of the windows closed and locked," he said, and glanced away when Lucy met his gaze. "I-It's just a formality. You know...a precaution."

She favored him with a blank stare...then, with a deep sigh, she leaned over and pushed the sash down. "There," she said and went back to her book.

He opened his mouth to tell her it had to be locked as well, but went over and did it himself instead. Lucy watched him from the corner of her eye, and Lincoln couldn't tell if she was worried or annoyed. "There," he said and put his hands on his hips. He felt the same desire to stay with her as he had with Lola. "What'cha reading?"

" _The Servants of Twilight_ by Dean Koontz," she said and held the book up, a hardback with a laminate dust jacket. The author, a tall man with a mustache and bald in the middle, smiled back at him. "It's about a little boy who might be the antichrist and this psychic lady and her cult trying to kill him."

Oh. That sounded...nice.

An image of Ronnie Anne Santiago's face flashed across his mind. She wasn't a psychic, but she _was_ a lady, and she _was_ trying to…

He closed that thought out; suddenly he didn't want to hang out with Lucy anymore. "Well, have fun," he said.

In Lisa and Lily's rooms, he checked the window. Locked.

Done, he finally slipped into Leni's room; she sat at her vanity much like Lola, only instead of doing homework she fed fabric through a sewing machine, the tip of her tongue curled over her upper lip in concentration. He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest, a loving smile dancing across his face. Ten years he'd been with her, and somehow, each day his feelings for her only grew, his heart swelled bigger and his affection deepened. She was his everything and he loved her so fiercely it scared him.

Pushing away from the door, he went over, laid his hand on her shoulder, and kissed the side of her head, her hair tickling his lips and filling his nose with its warm, clean fragrance. She melted into him and hummed in contentment. "Hi, Lincy," she said.

"Hi," he said, "what'cha working on?"

Leni sat up straight and turned to him with a big smile. "A baby blanket."

For the past three years, Leni had wanted nothing more than to have Lincoln's children. As a teenager, she nurtured big dreams and high hopes of making it in the fashion world. After high school, she attended the prestigious Chicago School of Design but dropped out after two semesters. _I miss you too much, Lincy,_ she told him at Christmas, _I don't wanna do fashion anymore._ He tried to persuade her to stick it out, but she came home, and though he wanted her to achieve her dreams, he was happy because he missed her too.

When she first brought up the idea of having a baby, he was onboard 100 percent. They were going to announce their relationship to their parents, move into their own place, and start a family. _I want five kids,_ she told him excitedly, _that way each one can have a name that spells L-I-N-C-Y_. That was the most adorable thing he could imagine, and it made him want children even more.

Then dad died and suddenly leaving was no longer a simple matter of walking out the door. Lincoln loved his family but he did not plan to live with them forever - in fact, he was anxious to get his own place with Leni, that way they could sleep together at night and wake up to one another in the warm light of the morning sun...that way they could delight in all the domestic trivialities that most couples take for granted. Dad dying changed everything. Mom and his younger sisters needed him in a way they didn't before, and call Lincoln what you will, but he couldn't bring himself to leave them. Not until things settled down.

Leni understood his reasoning and assented, but it hurt her. _One day,_ he told her once, _we'll have all the Lincy babies you can stand._ That gave her heart, and though she didn't indulge in fashion very often anymore, she went through periods where she mass produced baby clothes, then put them in a box _for later._

The blanket she was currently working on was pink with a lacy white trim, a teddy bear's face embroidered across the front. His eyes were closed and little blue Z's drifted from his mouth. Lincoln smiled and brushed a strand of hair from her face. "It's beautiful," he said.

She grinned proudly...then her face fell a little, the happy light draining from her eyes. Lincoln's heart twinged. "What's wrong?" he asked.

With a heavy sigh, she said, "I really want a baby, Lincy. I can't wait much longer."

Lincoln nodded solemnly. "I know, but...now just isn't the right time."

"When _will_ it be the right time?" she asked. "It's, like, been three years. Everyone's as over it as they're going to get."

He opened his mouth to protest, but stopped, first surprised at the level of insight that comment displayed (she wasn't a deep thinker, but she did have her moments), then contemplative because maybe...maybe she was right. No one can every fully come back from losing a spouse or parent, but the wounds do scab with time. Mom wasn't the weeping, inconsolable mess she was right after, sitting dazedly on the couch or wandering aimlessly through the house; Lola missed Dad but she smiled a lot more than she used to; Lana, Lucy, and Lisa were all better as well. Lana didn't have nightmares anymore and Lucy no longer tried to contact Dad's spirit. Lily recovered well too.

Looking at it now, clearly and soberly, he knew in his heart that things were as back-to-normal as they would ever be.

He didn't want to leave them, though.

But it was going to happen one day.

Why not sooner rather than later?

He looked into her hopeful eyes, and his soul stirred like leaves in a warm spring breeze. In that moment, he decided.

It was time to start his future.

He cupped her cheek in his hand, and she turned her anxious face up to his. "You're completely right," he said and brushed his thumb over her delicate cheekbone.

The light so recently fled from her eyes returned, warm and dazzling like the summer sun. "Can we have a baby _now?"_ She clutched his wrist and smiled.

Lincoln answered by kissing her, his tongue brushing past her lips and dancing with hers. She kissed him back, her head tilting to one side and her grasp tightening around his hand.

Shortly, they moved to the bed, stretching out on their sides and losing themselves to a flurry of urgent kisses and soft, gentle strokes. In the midst of their passion, Leni rolled onto her back and Lincoln mounted her, his fingers weaving with hers and pinning her hands above her head. He broke from her lips and planted his lips to the silky swell of her throat, her skin salty and warm. She threw her head to one side and said his name in a breathy sigh, her legs propping in an M and her knees grazing his hips.

Intoxicated on her, mind fogged with passion, Lincoln skimmed his fingertips along the outside of her thigh, pushing her dress up and finding the frilly waistband of her panties. She hitched into his mouth as he pulled them teasingly down, the fabric scraping her fevered flesh. She arched her back and he slid them over her ankles then tossed them away. Their eyes met, and she smiled beautifically, her palms lying flat on his chest and kneading the outline of his rippling muscles.

He undid his belt and slipped his jeans down just enough to free himself; Leni's sickly heat broke across him in waves, and when he thrusted deep into her boiling core, she gasped and sought his hands, their fingers twinning and a closed-eyed look of bliss touching her radiant features. Lincoln stared down into her face as he made love to her, his heart swelling as surely as his arousal. Leni watched through slitted, sparkling eyes, her breaths coming in short, hot bursts. Even ten years later, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, inside _and_ out, and though he had done it a million times in the past, right now he gave her his heart and soul, leaning into her lips and sealing it with a desperate kiss. She swirled her tongue with his, giving him _her_ heart and soul, then wrapped her legs around his waist, dug her heels into his butt, and lifted her hips slowly but firmly into his thrusts, each meeting of their bodies knocking a thin, pleasured whimper from her throat.

At some point, they changed positions, Lincoln lying flat on his back with Leni on top, her fingers splayed on his chest and her messy hair veiling her crystal blue eyes. Her dress was rumbled and hiked around her hips, her hot, satiny lower lips skimming across his tip like a fleeting kiss. She slipped her hands under his shirt and kneaded his skin like a playful kitten.

Slowly, she sank herself onto his shaft and threw her head back with a moan, her wet walls molding to him and stroking as she fell into a slow, tender pace. Lincoln gazed upon her beauty and crept his hands from her hips to her pert breasts, squeezing lightly and rubbing her aching nipples with his thumbs. She bent, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips to his cheek as she lifted up until he was nearly out, then sheathed him again. Lincoln hugged her to his chest and peppered her neck and shoulder with needy kisses. His climax was forming rapidly in his loins, and each one of her moans nudged him closer to the edge.

She drew back, laid her forehead against his, and stared into his eyes, her hair enshrouding them in their own secret world - a world built on love. "I love you, Lincy," she panted.

"I love you too," he said and kissed her.

She increased her speed in one final burst of energy, then froze, her walls clamping down on him as her orgasm peaked. He hugged her tighter and gave into his own end, heat rushing up from his depths, spilling out, and filling Leni's eager womb. They cried out together and shook as their mutual climax ebbed and flowed from one trembling body to the other, back and forth in tingling ecstasy until they were both spent and panting for air. Leni's wild hair hung in her face, obscuring it, and with every pant her muscles clenched as if to wring the last drops of his seed from his quivering dick.

For a while, Lincoln drifted on a tide of nirvana, then he brushed her hair from her face and held her cheek. Their gazes locked...then she bowed her head and giggled melodically. "Now we wait," she said.

"Alright," Lincoln said drowsily. "Let's wait."

She lifted off of him and stretched out beside him, her head resting over his heart and his arm around her shoulder.

In moments, they were asleep.

And both were smiling.

In the living room, Detective Frank Rudd was _not_ smiling. He stood before the front window, his sausage fingers holding the curtain back so that he could stare into the night. Scott and Johnson were still parked across the street. "Tell me you got her," he said into the cellphone pressed to his ear.

The voice on the other end was silent. "No, but we do have _something._ "

On the couch, Rita Loud, arms crossed anxiously over her breasts, watched warily. "What?" Rudd asked sharply.

"Two stiffs at a gas station twenty miles north of town."

Rudd's heart dropped. "How do you know it was her?" he asked, hoping to God it was a robbery gone wrong or something else...anything else.

"One was hanging upside down by his feet and gushing blood, the other was tacked to the wall with a machete. Looked like a slasher movie."

Acid bubbled up in Rudd's stomach, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Christ," he muttered.

"Who is this woman anyway?"

Rudd didn't know...and that scared him. "Just...keep me posted," he said shortly. Before the voice could reply, he closed his phone and shoved it into his coat pocket.

"What?" Rita asked worriedly.

In twenty years of police work, Rudd had never seen something like this. He dealt with killers, but never an escaped mental patient tearing across the countryside and leaving bodies in her wake. He peered out into the darkness, and his stomach turned sickly. Years ago, when he went to arrest a perp wanted for murder, he had a gun drawn on him, and he was open about that being the most terrifying experience of his life….standing there, frozen, staring down the bore of a pistol, shaking and waiting for the hammer to drop. It never happened again, and he never, ever felt that same marrow clawing dread.

Until now.

"What?" Rita pressed, her voice rising in alarm.

Rudd turned away from the window. "Nothing," he said, "we're doing our best." The last part came before he could stop it and sounded lame even to his own ears. He crossed to the armchair and sat heavily, a sigh escaping his lips.

"If something's going on, I think I deserve to know about it," Rita said crossly, "my family is in danger."

"Your family is fine, Mrs. Loud," Rudd said and held up his hand, "you are under police protection."

She looked like she was going to argue, then she took a deep breath and got up. "I need to call Lana again." She snatched her phone from the coffee table and went into her office, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Alone, Rudd took a deep breath and absently patted the revolver in the rig under his left arm like a small, frightened boy stroking a magic talisman to ward away evil spirits. Ronnie Anne Santiago was somewhere in the night, and he couldn't deny her intentions even if he wanted to.

She was coming here...bearing down on him and this family like a freight train from hell. She might even be outside this very minute, crouching in the bushes and looking for a way in, her face speckled with blood and her grin too wide, too big, too _cannibalistic._

He was shocked to realize that his heart was slamming in fear.

 _Stop it,_ he commanded himself. _You're acting stupid._

Taking a deep, calming breath, he got restlessly to his feet and went to the window, needing to be up and moving. He pulled the curtain back; heavy darkness pressed against the pane like evil incarnate, and irrational as it may have been, Rudd felt like it was _watching_ him.

He let the curtain fall back into place and tensed when he heard footsteps descending the stairs, his hand going unconsciously to the gun.

It was only the blonde girl, not Leni, the one with the gap in her teeth. Rudd knew her mother told him her name but he couldn't remember it. The only ones he knew off the top of his head were Lincoln and Leni, and only then because they were the vics of Ronnie Anne Santiago's previous assault.

Relaxing and damning himself for a fool, he turned away from the window and nodded to the girl when she walked into the living room. "Everything okay up there?" he asked. He figured it was, hoped it was...but didn't _know_ , and that disturbed him. He was building Santiago into a movie monster and the worst part was...he couldn't laugh it off _because maybe she was._

"Yeah, everything's fine," the girl said. "Is...is my mom around?"

Rudd nodded toward the office. "She's in there."

"Thanks." The girl went to the door, knocked, then slipped in, closing it behind her. Alone again, Rudd sank into the armchair and took out his cellphone, willing it to ring with good news but dreading it ringing with bad. He was not an overly religious man, though he did believe in God, but he thought back to the story of Christ in the Garden, praying desperately that the cup be taken from His lips. That was him right now, wishing, hoping, begging for this bullshit to pass him by like a threatening cloud.

Pursing his lips, he looked up at the TV screen where a family of superheroes bickered over whether or not to order pizza. Looked like one of those awful Nickolodean kidcoms his neices watched. A superhero would come in real handy right now.

He sighed and looked away, his eyes landing on the coffee cup perched upon the table. He completely forgot about it. Picking it up, he took a sip and winced.

Cold. Better get more

Something told him it was going to be a long night.

* * *

Lana Loud leaned against the kitchen counter, cracked a can of Natty Ice, and took a long, thirsty drink, foam coursing down either side of her chin and dribbling onto the front of her shirt, where it soaked into her breasts. Loud, twangy country music blared from surround sound speakers in the living room and the steady backbeat made he feel like dancing even though she wasn't any good at it.

Behind her, the party was in full swing, couples dancing, guys playing beer pong, and girls standing against the wall with red solo cups clutched in their hands, not entirely sober but not yet drunk enough to start twerking. Her boyfriend, Stuart, tall and gangly with pale black hair, stood by the kitchen table with a few of his buddies, laughing over a mean-spirited joke at another friend's expense.

When the can was empty, she crushed it in her fist and threw it to the floor. Her friend, Debbie, a fat, frumpy lesbian with long brown hair and clad in a red and black checkered shirt, grabbed her own can from the box, cracked it, and grinned. "You can't beat me, girl. Don't even try."

"I'm three in, where are _you?_ "

Debbie lifted the can to her lips and chugged, then crumpled it and slammed it to the floor. "That's where I'm at."

Every time Lana went to a party, she and Debbie wound up trying to outdrink each other, a tradition Lana herself established when she got sick of Debbie pounding her chest about how she could put anyone under the table. _Man or woman, white or black, I'll drink more, that's a fact._ She liked the dyke, but you can only take so much of someone boasting on themselves before you want to put them in their place.

Unsurprisingly, Debbie,often won their bouts - she was bigger than Lana, so it took more to get her drunk. Lana was nothing to sneeze at, though, her tolerance for alcohol was naturally high, and more than once she was the last woman standing, which won her bragging rights until the next match.

She wasn't planning on drinking tonight since her mother would kill her if she smelled it on her breath, but things happen. She snatched another beer, popped the top, and drained it at a draught, the warm, yeasty liquid splashing down the back of her throat and hitting her system like a punch. Her head started to feel fuzzy and she swayed unsteadily.

Someone wrapped their arms around her waist from behind, and she jumped, sucking beer into her windpipe and choking. Debbie laughed uproariously and waved her hand as Lana coughed and gasped for air, the can dropping from her hand "You gotta learn how to do that right," Stuart taunted and kissed her neck, his hands running over her stomach and his crotch rubbing firmly against her butt.

"Will you get out of here?" she laughed and pulled away. "You messed me up, asswipe."

Picking up another beer, Debbie said, "He _saved_ you, honey. You were about to lose so hard your babies would feel it."

Lana reached for a replacement beer, determined to show _her_ who was gonna lose, but Stuart threw his arms around her shoulders and pulled her against him, upsetting her balance. She cried out and flailed her arms like a bird flapping its broken wings and trying to stay airborne. "Don't do it!" he yelled playfully. "Our babies are at stake. Think of the children." His hands crept to her breasts and squeezed, and pangs of sensation rippled through her pussy. She said she didn't like it when he groped her in front of people, but that was a lie: She did.

"Get the hell offa me," she spat and struggled against his embrace, making sure to grind her butt teasingly against his groin. "You're acting dumb." She turned her head and their noses brushed.

Stuart grinned. "I thought you liked dumb."

She bit her lower lip and gazed into his soft, green eyes, flecked here and there with brown and gold. Her heartbeat sped up like it did every time she looked at them and a dreamy smile lifted the corners of her lips. She wasn't the type of girl who liked beautiful stuff, but she liked Stuart's eyes...they made her feel stupid, funny things that she couldn't explain but felt really nice. "Nope," she said, "I like dirty."

Their lips met and the tips of their tongues flicked in a sensual greeting, the taste of his boozy breath filling her mouth and intoxicating her senses. He laced his hands over her stomach and she laid hers on the backs of his, her slender fingers stroking his knuckles and her nails grazing his skin. Her core tightened in desre and every nerve ending in her body crackled with anticipation of being touched, kissed, and fucked.

Shaking her head, Debbie made a sound of disgust in the back of her throat. "Y'all need to take that somewhere private."

Stuart broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers. "That sounds like a good idea," he said and glanced at the back door. "There's a barn out there."

"A barn?" Lana asked. She heard him, but...a barn? Really? They had sex in some strange places, but that was a little much. In her mind, barns were full of dust and cobwebs and stank of ancient, lingering horseshit. The only place to do it was in the brittle, dirty hay and…

On second thought…

He nodded and grinned goofily. "A barn."

"Alright," she said, "just let me pee."

Stuart's grin widened salaciously. "I'll meet you there."

He released her and scurried excitedly out the back door while she swept into the crowded living room, only now realizing that she was past tipsy and closing in on drunk. Her steps were shaky and uneven, and when a boy in a denim jacket bumped into her, she felt herself beginning to topple and her heart rocketed into her throat. She kept her balance but just barely; the goddamn floor kept pitching like the deck of a ship and the room twisted back and forth, back and forth, making her dizzy.

At the bottom of the stairs, she clutched the banister and held on as she ascended. Shadows crowded the second floor and when she found a switch on the wall, she flicked it only for nothing to happen. "Don't you change your light bulbs?" she asked aloud and felt her way along the wall; she'd been here before and knew roundabout where the bathroom was...she thought.

Reaching the end of the hall, she felt for the doorknob, found it, and went in, snapping the light on.

She stiffened in shock at what she saw.

A girl with curly red head knelt in the middle of a bed, a boy behind her and pumping furiously with a rhythmic and fleshy _slap-slap-slap_. They both looked up at her, and horror crossed their faces.

Coming alive, she whipped her head away and held up her hand. "Sorry, wrong room!" She took a step back, rammed her shoulder into the frame, and almost went down. She grabbed the handle and pulled the door closed; the boy pumped and the girl threw herself back into his thrusts, both apparently deciding that getting off was more important than trying to preserve their modesty.

Stumbling away, Lana grinned into the darkness. She liked doggystyle herself; when she bowed her head and lifted her butt, Stuart hit so deep it felt like he was going to come out the other end. The one thing she didn't like was how...detached it was. Maybe she was cheesy or something, but she wanted to look at his face when they had sex, not the goddamn wall. She also liked kissing him and staring into his eyes when they did it; it made her orgasms much, much better.

She found another door, pushed it open, and flicked the switch, wincing in expectation of finding another couple knocking boots.

A tub, toilet, and sink spread out before her.

"There you are," she said like a woman happily greeting an old friend. She stepped in, closed the door, and crossed to the commode. Pulling down her pants, she lifted the lid and sat, her elbows propping on her knees and her face resting in her upturned palms.

Thinking back to Stuart, she sighed contentedly. She was kinda sappy when it came to him, no use trying to lie. How could she not be, though? He was her first in everything - first boy she liked, first hand she held, first kiss, first _time_. They'd been together forever, and she got the same fluttery, heart-stopping feeling when he kissed her that she did when she was eleven-years-old.

She was gonna marry that boy one day.

Done, she wiped, flushed the toilet, and went back into the hall, her light-adjusted eyes blind in the dark. She followed faint light to the head of the stairs and went down, passing a couple on the way up, the girl leading the boy by the hand and glancing sexily over her shoulder. Have fun in your comfy little bed, me and _my_ man are gonna roll in the hay. Literally.

She snickered to herself.

In the kitchen, Debbie sat at the table with her head bowed and rolling back and forth. Looked like all that beer hit her at once. Ha. Lana felt fine. Guess that meant she won. She clapped her friend on the shoulder and leaned into her ear. Shouting to be heard over Jason Aldean, she said, "Looks like you looooose."

Debbie looked up at her, eyes bleary and lips pursed. "I didn't lose," she slurred, "I'm still here." She lifted a can of Natty and held it up as though she were proposing a toast.

"Not for long by the looks of it," Lana grinned.

Debbie's face darkened and she leaned over. "Fuck you, bitch."

"You too, hun," Lana chirped. She stood, patted Debbie on the top of her head, and turned, grabbing a beer from the counter as she passed. At the door, she popped the tab then went outside.

Warm when she got there, the night had grown cold, and she shivered against a needling gust of wind. The barn stood roughly five hundred feet away in a grove of twisted trees that uncomfortably reminded Lana of skeletal fingers rising from a grave. In the ghostly light of the moon, its sagging facade was revealed like the face of a rotting corpse. Narrow windows flanked a wide door, and in them Lana spotted a flicker of feeble firelight. Every haunted house movie she'd ever seen came back to her, and her stomach clutched with inexplicable dread, the warm, beery haze in her brain blowing away on a chilly breath of disquiet.

For some reason she couldn't explain, the urge to turn around and go back inside gripped her, and she almost did, but damned herself as a fool. Ghosts aren't real and neither is the bogeyman.

She tittered to herself, and the stark sound of it unnerved her even more. She took a fortifying drink and started toward the barn, the tall grass whispering as she passed like the urgent pleas of a thousand phantoms. _Turn back, turn back, turn back…_

No more horror movies with Lucy, she told herself and forged ahead.

At the door, which stood slightly ajar, she peeked through the crack. Empty stalls flanked a wide aisle, the dusty plank floor was covered in a matted layer of hay. Oil lamps lined the wall, tattered strands of cobwebs fluttering in stale drafts like dancing specters celebrating their return from the dead.

 _Jesus, girl, you_ are _Lucy,_ Lana thought with a shiver.

To the left, a rickety wooden ladder accessed a loft that stretched from one end of the building to the other. A railing ran along its length and low light throbbed from an unseen source. More lamps, she figured, or, maybe, from Stuart's passion.

She snickered to herself and slipped through the gap. Talk about cheesy. At this rate she'd be writing romance novels by the time she was twenty. That thought made her gag, but the prospect of romance writer money gave her pause. Sell a million books at thirty bucks a pop and never have to work again.

 _I know what I'm doing with_ my _life._

Somewhere in the loft above, something moved, boards creaking like the pained cry of a damned soul. A knowing grin ran across Lana's face and she crept to the ladder, shoulders hunched and her tip-toe steps exaggeratedly long, lending her the resemblance of Elmer Fudd hunting wabbits. She laid her hands on one of the rungs and craned her neck back; darkness nestled in the rafters overhead and errant rays of pulsing light fleetingly painted the eaves in amber hues.

 _Thump._

Her smile widened and she imagined Stuart hurrying to find a place to hide and being clumsy. When she went up there, he'd jump out from behind a support beam or from an alcove and cry _boo..._ then she'd pounce him like a hungry lioness and maw his face with passionate kisses. She reached over her head, grabbed a rung, and started to climb, trying to be as quiet as possible and wincing at every creak she made. Damn rusty nails, why you gotta do me like that?

She reached the top and looked around. Hay covered the floor and an oil lamp sat on a window ledge, its illumination spreading out and skimming the darkness. To either side, deep shadows pooled in the wings, support beams looming forward like emaciated ghouls from a nightmare. A sharp pang of apprehension cut through Lana's stomach and her throat went dry. Kinda creepy up here. She lingered on the ladder for a moment, reluctant, then climbed off and stood there, her head turning from side to side, her eyes squinting to make out Stuart but finding only the night.

When something clattered to her left, like a metal pan hitting the kitchen floor, she jumped and uttered a high, frightened squeak. Alright, that's enough. "Stuart, knock it off," she said, succeeding in keeping the rising trepidation from her voice. "You're being dumb."

No reply save for the wind moaning in the eaves; a cold draft washed over her and made the flame shudder; the light dimmed and her heart blasted. "I-I'm being serious," she said. This time her tone was low and breaking with panic. She threw a longing glance over her shoulder and seriously considered climbing back down and walking away. If he wanted to play, he could stay up here and play with himself.

The only thing that stopped her was pride. He'd never let her live it down if she got scared and ran away like a little girl from a scary sound. He could be worse than Debbie sometimes, and though his taunts were never cruel, she couldn't stand the thought of him thinking she was a ninny. She was going to be with him forever and that's a _mighty_ long time to get teased about that one time you got spooked by a damn hayloft.

Steeling her resolve, she took a deep breath and started toward the spot from which the sound came, her muscles tensing and her hands balling into fists. "Stuart, this isn't funny," she said, her voice sounding small and weak. "I'm gonna kick your ass if you keep it up."

 _Thump._

"You know I will," Lana said, almost pleading. "You wanna do it or not? I'm about to leave."

Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the gloom, and a form took shape on her left. She whipped her head around, and there he was, his arms thrown around a support beam and his head hung. She relaxed and let out a pent-up breath she wasn't aware she was holding. "I can see you, jerk," she said, unamused.

Stuart didn't move.

"You can give it up now," she said.

The wind blew and the light scattered. He still didn't move, and annoyance pinched Lana's chest. She was _this_ close from slapping him in the back of his dumb head.

In fact…

Baring her teeth, she stalked over and lifted her hand to do just that, but stopped when her foot slipped in something. She looked down and furrowed her brow: A puddle of dark, sticky liquid soaked into the floorboards, the light reflecting on its surface like moonbeams on a midnight tide.

Frowning in confusion, she looked up at Stuart. "What -?"

Her words cut off and her heart dropped into her stomach. From afar - and coming over - she didn't see the long metal bar rammed through his back and pinning his limp, lifeless body to the column...but she did now. A throat-ripping scream of horror burst from her lips and she stumbled back, her hands flying up as if to bat the terrible image away. A heavy footfall sounded behind her, and she whipped around, her blood freezing when a creature stepped from the shadows, its terrible countenance revealed in low, hellish half-light. It was tall and lank, its emaciated frame clad in a baggy jumpsuit.

Lana's wide, petrified eyes went to the long, wickedly sharp ax in its hands.

Then back to its fevered eyes.

In a flash of mind-bending terror, she realized that it was wearing Stuart's face like a mask.

The air left her lungs in a rush and her body clamped up, her heart slamming a frantic, fearful tempo against her breast. The thing took a shuffling step forward. " _He's mine,"_ it hissed in a voice like grating of stones. " _He belongs to_ me."

When it lifted the ax, Lana's paralysis broke and she fell dumbly back, her feet tangling and spilling her to the floor. The thing approached, and alarm exploded in the center of Lana's chest. Screaming, she rolled to her knees and tried to push herself up, her hand slipping in the blood. The thing came slowly and inexorably closer like Death itself, its black eyes shimmering with madness inside Stuart's gaping sockets. Lana howled and got to her feet, her shoe sliding in the blood and her wildly throbbing heart leaping into her throat. Hunched and shaking, her steps jittery and shaking, she staggered aimlessly away, tears standing in her eyes and sobs blasting from her throat. Her mind was blank, numb, her primal instincts overriding her thoughts. She threw a frightened glance over her shoulder and wailed as the thing closed in, its lips curling into an evil smile.

She reached the window and spun to face the killer, an animal backed into a corner, no help, no escape. Panic ripped at her with icy claws and she started to cry in earnest, like a lost little girl for the safe and comforting embrace of her mother. Lana always thought she was tough and strong - that she could take care of herself is someone messed with her - but as she collapsed into a trembling heap before the monster, the revelation that she was wrong stuck in her heart like an icepick.

The creature towered over her, staring down in seething hatred. Lana wrapped her arms around her chest and tried to speak, but uttered a strangled sob instead. Through the blurry sheen of her tears, she saw the creature's smile widen - a cat closing in on a wounded mouse.

"P-Please," Lana managed, her voice hitching, "please don't hurt me." She broke down and hugged herself tight, rocking back and forth on her butt. "P-Please."

The creature cocked its head as if considering her plea, and for a hopeful moment, Lana thought it was going to let her go.

Instead, it brought the ax over its head in a swift, fluid motion, and the back of Lana's neck tingled in awful anticipation. She screamed, and the ax fell, its blade smashing into the center of her head; excruciating agony detonated in her skull and her scream turned into a hysterical, high-pitched mewl as bone shattered and cold steel sliced soft, pink brain. Blood gushed down her face and stung her rapidly fading eyes. The creature jammed one foot flat against her chest and yanked the ax out. Spasming as her butchered brain misfired and sent freneic and nonsensical knee-jerk orders to her nerves, Lana toppled over and convulsed on the floor like a fish flopping on a dock, blood and thick, chunky brain matter oozing from her head. The coldness of coming death flooded her body and her vision began to gray.

The monster lifted the ax over its head. " _He's mine,"_ it rattled, " _Lincoln...is...mine."_

An image emerged from the mist in her mind: Her and Stuart married and happy, a baby in her arms and smiles on their faces. That's what she wanted...not Lincoln.

Letting loose a crazed yell, the killer brought the ax down hard, and what Lana wanted ceased to matter.


	4. Under Siege

**STR2D3PO: I wanted a convincing reason for why Lincoln and Leni would still be living at home, and Lynn having recently died, and depicting Lincoln as reluctant to leave his family because he feels they need him, seemed reasonable. Also, that all-points bulletin comment made me laugh. Nice reference.**

 **Guest: Not necessarily. The brain is a complex organ, and people have remained conscious through all sorts of injuries to it. She was definitely in the process of dying, though - even if Ronnie Anne didn't hit her again, she was gone.**

 **GuestStereotype: You have to be insane to take their driving courses.**

 **That Engineer: Ronnie Anne just wants the sisters out of the way so she can have Lincoln. She enjoys killing them, but she'd rather dispatch them fairly quickly than keep them hanging around.**

 **TheGreatestWriter: I like the first, it's just I think I've seen it too much. Taken on their own merits, I liked the mobility of the second (Micheal Myers making his way through town on his way to the hospital) and the siege atmosphere of the fourth (which I'm attempting to recreate, in part, here). I haven't seen that movie. Is it any good?**

* * *

Rita sat on the couch with her arms and legs crossed, one foot tapping restlessly and keeping time with the drumming of her fingers against the fabric of her shirtsleeve. Her cellphone sat dark and silent on the coffee table before her, next to a cup of coffee she hadn't touched in fifteen minutes. Detective Rudd leaned forward, rested his forearms on his thighs, and looked pointedly at Lola Loud. The girl, her previously done up hair hanging free and spilling over her shoulders like summer wheat, stared ashamedly down at her lap, her face a wan mask of worry.

Rudd lowered his gaze when Rita shot her daughter a tight-lipped expression of annoyance. "I know you know where she went," she said sharply, her self-assured tone that of a mystic who has seen into the future.

"I don't," Lola said without looking up. "I swear."

It was closing in on 9pm and Rita's concern for Lana had been steadily building over the past hour until she paced the floors and raked her fingers through her hair. Rudd tried to allay her fears by telling her that _if_ Ronnie Anne Santiago did indeed come here, her daughter would be safer elsewhere, just like Lily. _I_ know _where Lily is,_ she snapped at him, _I don't know where Lana is._

She _did_ have a point, he supposed.

Lola, Rita realized, most likely knew where this party was, since she and Lana had been known to cover for each other. From what Rita said, Lana liked to drink and sometimes smoke dope - as a lot of teenagers do...hell, as Rudd himself did when he was a kid - and usually left her information with her twin in the event she needed help of some kind. A few times in the past, Rita caught Lola trying to sneak a drunk Lana up the stairs after fetching her from where ever in the family car. Lola, however, wouldn't talk; Rudd suspected she was afraid of breaking her sister's trust and getting her in trouble.

Drawing a deep breath, Rudd returned his eyes to the girl and said, "Look, your mom's really upset and...for Lana's own safety, it'd be best for her to be here where we can keep an eye on her." Lola looked up at him, anxiety written across her delicate features. "I know you don't want your sister getting in trouble, and I'm sure that this one time, your mother will let...let things slide if she has to."

He turned to Rita. Her face was drawn and haggard, her skin sallow and her eyes seethed with brooding unease. "I just want her home," she said to the mug on the table. He nodded and turned back to Lola, who flicked her eyes down.

"Where is she, Lola?" he asked softly but firmly.

For a long moment, Lola stared at her feet, then sighed. "Steve Pace's house."

Good. Now they were getting somewhere. "What's the address?" he asked and took out his phone.

Lola hesitated. "I'm not sure. It's on Maple Lane. Last house on the right."

Rudd called up Google Maps, and an image of Royal Woods filled the screen. Holding his thumb and forefinger an inch apart, he scrolled to Maple, a narrow side street off a slightly less narrow side street and flanked by houses with wide yards. The ones on the right bordered a vast field that terminated at a dense stand of trees clustered along the Royal River. Rudd zoomed in on the last one and looked at Lola. "Is there a barn behind it?"

"I...think," she said uncertainly.

That was good enough for him. Getting to his feet, he wandered to the window as he dialed the station. While he waited, he pulled the curtain back and nervously scanned the dark street. "I'm sorry," Lola said lowly.

"I'm not mad," Rita said, her voice tense with foreboding, "I'm just...I'm scared." The last two words came as a shameful admission. She hugged herself, and Lola watched her with gloomy eyes, then touched her leg. To her surprise, Mom took her hand and held tight.

"It's Rudd," Detective Rudd said into the phone. Lola could sense his agitation, and while she expected her mother to be afraid, she did _not_ expect it from a cop; that he clearly was scared her greatly. "I want a unit to 735 Maple Lane. There's a...a party going on. I want Lana Loud picked up and brought to me." He stopped and listened for a moment as the person on the other end spoke. Lola's heartbeat sped up at the mention of her twin's name and she squeezed her mother's hand. The danger of the night was beginning to finally sink in, and nauseous dread flooded her stomach. Lana might be in trouble and it was her fault for not saying something sooner...her fault for not taking this seriously.

A shiver went through her at the thought of Lana being hurt, and sudden, stinging tears welled in her eyes.

"1216 Franklin," Rudd said, waited, then hung up with a sigh, his hand absently shoving the phone back into his pocket.

Outside, the squad car was still parked where it had been all night, and Rudd hated himself for wanting another, two more, three. He pressed the tip of his tongue against the inside of his bottom lip and wondered if he should request a second car. No, he was letting himself get unnecessarily ansty - Santiago weighed 105 pounds, she was no bigger than a fifteen year old girl, if that. She was dangerous as all hell, but only if she got the drop on you. She had the element of surprise on her side when she killed Palmer, the orderly, and the people at the gas station; she didn't have that anymore.

His eyes went to the car again. In the glare of a porch light across the way, he could just make out a figure behind the wheel. Probably Scott. Johnson was lost in shadows. He briefly considered calling them and having one walk the parameter of the house, but, damn it, he didn't like the thought of them splitting up.

Sighing, he went back to the chair and sat, his elbow propping on the arm and his fingers massaging his aching temple. After this, he decided, he was retiring. He was fifty-six and he'd been in the fray since he was nineteen. He was entitled to a pension - he wanted his nest egg to grow a little more but fuck it, he was too old for this shit anymore.

Rita's phone buzzed and he glanced over as she snatched it off the table; a look of relief crossed her face and she let out a deep breath. "Thank God, it's Lana," she said. She read the message then typed out a response, Lola and Rudd both watching curiously. "She's at Flip's and she needs a ride." She got up and went into the kitchen. Lola ran her fingers through her silky blonde hair, her expression one of a woman rescued from Old Sparky at the last possible moment. Rudd didn't show it, but he was glad too.

Reaching into his pocket, he took out his phone and canceled the unit, hanging up just as Rita came in with her purse over her shoulder, her movements jerky and rushed. "I'll be back in five minutes," she vowed and crossed to the door, turning to rummage in her bag, then taking out her car keys.

Her hand touched the handle before something occurred to Rudd. Even though he didn't want them to split up, he asked, "Would you like me to send Officer Johnson with you?"

"No," she said instantly, "I'll be fine, I'd rather he stay here." She looked pointedly at her daughter, then, "lock the door behind me."

Lola got up and walked over, closing the door and locking it after Rita slipped out. She lingered for a moment, then took a deep breath and turned away, going up the stairs and leaving Rudd by himself.

At least things were still going right, he thought.

* * *

Outside, Rita paused on the front step and checked her pockets for her phone, then dug in her purse by the faint glow of the porch light when she didn't find it. Her fingers closed on it, and, satisfied, she went down the steps, the soles of her shoes slapping hollowly. A symphony of crickets serenaded the night, and a chilly breeze roared in the treetops like the voice of an angry giant. Her steps were light but hurried as she crossed the lawn to the driveway; she was frankly frightened to be out right now, away from the lighted, fort-like safety of her home, but she felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She was beside herself with worry the whole evening - she called and texted Lana two dozen times, and every _you have reached a voice mailbox that has not be set up_ jagged her throbbing heart like the cold blade of a knife. When she saw her daughter, she was going to hug her fiercely and cover her face in thankful kisses...then give her the scolding of a lifetime for scaring her like that.

An owl hooted forlornly from the oak tree dominating the yard, and she whipped her head toward it - a dark shape with shining yellow eyes perched upon a high branch and watching intently like a demon eagerly awaiting a dark repast. She swallowed thickly and looked away, her gaze landing on the police car parked at the opposite curb, the harsh orange glare of a streetlamp falling across its hood and pooling on the pavement. She could make out two dark forms inside, both leaning back in a relaxed posture. She was so worried about Lana that it completely slipped her mind to come out and ask if they wanted coffee; they could certainly use it.

She reached the driveway and walked to the exterior door along the side of the garage, her footfalls echoing on the cement and playing on her nerves. A gust of wind swept over her; somewhere, a loose shudder slammed, and she startled, a tiny, muffled cry escaping her constricted throat. She tried to laugh at her own jumpiness, but couldn't. Even if Detective Rudd didn't think so, her family was in grave danger, and she wouldn't feel at ease until Ronnie Anne was in jail again.

At the door, she peered through the grimey segmented window, her heart starting to race at the deep blackness beyond, in which anything could be lurking...like a crazed woman with an ax. She caught her breathing before it could get away from her and called up a vision of Lana sitting on the curb in front of Flip's, her head hung and rolling drunkenly.

That was allt the exhorting she needed. She took the knob in her hand, twisted, and pushed the door open, a warm rush of stale air redolent of earth and motor oil breaking across her face. She felt for the lightswitch, found it, and flicked it.

Nothing.

Damn.

The shudder slammed again, and she jerked a fraught glance over her shoulder; the house next door was dark, its lawn shaggy and a FOR SALE sign creaking rustily back and forth. She spotted it, second story, back bedroom - another gust drew it away from the wall, then a third drove it against the siding with a whip-crack that affrighted her even though she was expecting it. The McKenzies moved out almost two years ago after Mr. McKenzie lost his job, and never once in that time had Rita seen anything but a simple house. Right now, in the dusky star-shine of a bleak night, it transformed into a phantom-haunted ruin, and though she absolutely did not believe in ghosts, she was suddenly and utterly certain that if she allowed her eyes to tarry on the windows, she would see a glowing white face staring back at her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she turned briskly away, the overwhelming sensation of being watched settling like dampness into her bones.

Ignoring it, she crossed the threshold and closed the door behind her. To the right, the washer and dryer sat against the north wall, wedged between a chest freezer on one side and an upright tool cabinet on the other. A wooden work bench flanked the far wall - before he died, Lynn would come out here and tinker around. He wasn't a very mechanically inclined man, but with so much noise and activity in the house, he needed the occasional respite, just as she herself did. She had her office, and he had the garage. It was his domain and though it was always a confused mess to her, he knew where everything was, and if you moved something, God help you.

A wistful smile touched her lips as she shuffled to the car, ware for unseen obstacles. Sometimes she came out here during the day and sat on the stool before the bench just to feel closer to him; it was as though his animating spirit remained, and as she ran her eyes over his things - kept just the way he left them as if in anticipation of his eventual return - she could almost imagine it wrapping itself around her in a tender embrace.

She missed him so badly her chest clutched, and she dearly wished he was with her now. With Ronnie Anne escaping and Lana being missing, she was so knotted and scared, but if Lynn were here, he would take her in his arms and make everything better, for with him, she had always felt safe, and all of life's troubles fell short of their bond.

Feeling her away along the hood, she rounded the front end, fumbled for the door handle, and opened it. Something clattered to the floor behind her and she spun on her heels, her heart smashing into her ribs. Her dark-adjust eyes detected a long, thin shape lying on the concrete floor. She twisted around to see a cluster of rakes, shovels, and brooms leaning against the wall. She must have bumped them with her purse and knocked one over.

She exhaled through her nose and pursed her lips in annoyance. She was letting this whole thing get to her far more than she should. If she wasn't careful, she'd be a flighty wreck by the end of the night.

Shaking her head, she climbed in behind the wheel, dropped her purse in the center console, and yanked the door closed. She pulled the seatbelt over her chest and clicked it, then jammed the key into the ignition. The engine turned over and the dash panel lit up, illuminating her face in thin, sickly green. She reached for the garage door opener clipped to the visor and caught a flash of movement in the rearview mirror.

Before she could react, a cord tightened around her neck and pulled her roughly back; her air supply cut sharply off and her eyes bulged from their sockets. Panic burst in her chest and she frantically clawed at the rope, her mouth working in a silent, gasping scream. She kicked her feet and thrashed her body left and right in a desperate attempt to break the hold, but the rope pulled tighter, the back of her head drawing flush with the headrest and the material digging painfully into her soft throat. Her vision tinged with gray and she realized with bursting horror that she was going to lose consciousness if she didn't breathe.

Mindless in hysteria, she let go of the cord and threw her right hand back, her hooked fingers questing for an eye to gouge or hair to pull, something, anything to save herself. Her nails skimmed loose flesh and in the mirror, she saw the thing strangling her, its sagging, blood splattered face and its wide, black eyes burning with deranged fervor. She was sinking, numbness stealing across her oxygen starved brain; surely that's why she could have sworn it was Lana's pale countenance staring back at her.

The thing tried to moved back, but Rita gripped its cheek, dug her nails in, and pulled; it came off in her hand like wet leather. In the eerie luminescence, Ronnie Anne Santiago was revealed, her eyes narrowed and her teeth gritting, her bony, blood slicked features screwed up in satanic rage. Rita's wildly pounding heart sputtered and she felt herself draining away; her ears rang, shadows covered her eyes, and her panic ebbed beneath the warm flood of anesthesia drowning her body.

An image of her family flickered across her dying mind. She was going to hurt them...she couldn't let her hurt her babies.

She lifted her arm again, meaning to jam her thumb into the bitch's eye, but it weighed a thousand pounds and wouldn't budge. Her eyes started to roll back into her head and her muscles grew weak. She...couldn't…

Summoning every bit of energy she had, she gave a feeble body-wide jerk and arched her back. Ronnie Anne, panting obscenely, pulled the rope even tighter. " _Mine,"_ she hissed.

Rita's hands fell away from the rope and landed limply in her lap.

 _God...don't...d-don't...hurt...please...my...children…_

Darkness closed over her like the tide over the head of a swimmer grown weary, and Rita floated in its depths forevermore.

When Ronnie Anne was sure she was dead, she pulled the rope over her head and tossed it away.

 _You're still not his sister,_ the corpse mocked.

Reaching between the seats, she retrieved the shopping and ragged flesh that once constituted Lana's face and stared down at it, cold and lumpy in her palms like dough.

 _You'll never be his sister…he'll never love you._

She pressed the bloody skin to her face. "I _am_ his sister," she croaked, "and he _will_ love me." She picked the ax up from the floor and gripped its smooth, wooden handle.

"Or else."

Throwing open the door, she got out and slipped through the garage like a shadow. Outside, a cold breeze blew and a thousand tiny noises came together to form a gruesome nocturn. She cocked her head slowly to one side and listened, but heard nothing singular. Holding the ax tight, its weight and shape comforting in her hands, she turned left and followed the garage to the backyard. A tall wood fence enclosed it, and a shed sat in the western corner, its roof sagging and its facade crisscrossed by thin, creeping vines. To her left, and above ground pool sat near the back porch, its bottom skimmed with green, scummy water. She reached the steps and paused, her breathing coming faster at the promise of more victims. Lincoln had ten sisters, and she killed one, so that left nine...nine girls to hack, slash, choke, and cut. His father too, but she wasn't looking forward to murdering him the way she was the sisters.

Unless Lincoln was gay now too.

 _He fucks my ass,_ Lynn Sr. said from the center of her skull. _And we laugh at you...how we laugh…_

She bared her teeth.

 _We all laugh,_ a chorus of voices sang, _we laugh at you._

"Shut up."

 _Not one of us,_ they chanted, _not one of us, not one of us..._

A tight ball of fury knotted in her chest, and she climbed the the steps, bent forward as if against the barrage of the Loud family's taunts. She was going to make them pay, and when she was done, she was going to _become_ them.

* * *

Lincoln came languidly awake in the warm spill of the bedside lamp, his eyelids fluttering open and his face wincing when something tickled his forehead. Leni leaned over him, her palm resting flat on his chest and her eyes shining with radiance. "Good morning, sleepyhead," she grinned.

Morning? Was it morning already?

His next thought was: Did they get Ronnie Anne?

"What time is it?" he asked and drew himself to a sitting position. His neck was stiff and his lower back sore; he hissed over clenched teeth as pain shot up the back of his head and plunged into his brain.

Leni stood to her full height and glanced at the clock, her hands up in front of her and curved down. "9:31," she said.

Lincoln's heart leapt into his throat. Oh, shit, he was late for work. He fell asleep in Leni's room and missed his alarm, now he was an hour behind and God only knew what the foreman was going to say. Jesus, he could lose his job over this.

Hyperventilating in his panic, he started to get up, but stopped. No morning brilliance pressed against the window pane, no birds sang. Now he was so confused his head spun. He looked up at Leni and tilted his head. "Is it morning?" he asked.

Leni's eyes clouded like two tide pools filling with silt disturbed by the passage of a thought and regarded him as though he'd grown an extra head. "No," she drew at length, "it's nighttime." She pointed to the window. "See?"

Relaxing, Lincoln let out a deep, thankful breath. "You said it was morning,' he said, "and I thought going to lose my job."

 _I also thought Ronnie Anne was in jail_.

His stomach tightened at the realization that it was still happening - he didn't sleep safely through it and wake up on the other side; night held sway and Ronnie Anne was still out there, slinking through the murk like a pale faced vampire in a silent movie. He was not safe, his family was not safe, no one, from what Rudd was saying, was safe.

"Nope," Leni said, and favored him with a serious expression that Lincoln couldn't help but find cute, "it's just an expression, Lincy."

Well, excuse me. "Yeah, I know, I'm silly," he said.

Bending over, Leni pecked him on the cheek. "I was going to let you sleep, but you looked totes adorbs and I wanted to kiss you. Sorry."

"It's fine," Lincoln said and stretched, "I need to get up anyway." He stood and took her in his arms, his hands snaking around and grabbing her butt through her dress. She giggled and slipped her hands under his shirt, her delicate fingers kissing his skin. Their gazes locked, and deep, tender-hearted affection swelled in his breast.

How did he get so lucky? He asked himself that time and again over the past ten years, but he never came up with a satisfactory answer, so he just accepted it, the way a child accepts that the sky is blue. Leni was everything he had ever hoped for in a woman and more: Kind, loving, sweet, and, of course, physically beautiful. Her looks did not matter to him - he would love her just as dearly if she was 500 pounds and bald - they were just the icing on the cake. Every once in a while, he would try to imagine himself with another woman, but he couldn't - Leni was all that he wanted and all that he needed.

Bending over, he kissed her, and she kissed him back, pushing up on her tippy toes and throwing her arms around his neck. He threaded his fingers through her silky hair and wrote a gentle love letter to her tongue with his. She smiled against his lips and pulled away. "I took a pregnancy test," she stated.

"Uh, it's a little early for that," Lincoln said.

She sighed and hung her head. "I know. I'm just _really_ excited."

Hugging her tight and rocking her back and forth, he said, "I am too." And he was; so excited that he could barely contain himself. He imagined a large family full of cute, ditzy blondes just like their mother, and a wide, beaming smile spread across his face.

"I need to get back to the blanket," she said suddenly, as if just remembering. She pulled away and went to the vanity. "I'm gonna have to make a blue one too," she mused, then looked at him over her shoulder, "just in case."

Lincoln chuckled, crossed to her, and laid his hand on her shoulder, "How about one that's pink on one side and blue on the other? That way we can just flip it over according to the baby's gender."

Leni's jaw dropped and she sucked a sharp gasp. "Lincy, that's, like, genius! I'll do that right now." She turned away and dropped into the chair, returning to her work with renewed vigor. For a moment, Lincoln simply watched her, so happy he felt like he was floating on a cloud, then his bladder twinged.

"I have to use the bathroom," he said.

"Okie dokie," Leni sang.

In the bathroom, Lincoln snapped the light on and closed the door behind him. As he did his business, he decided to talk to Detective Rudd and see if Ronnie Anne had been caught yet. Maybe the nap helped, but the shock and superstitious terror had worn off and he was able to look at it clearly. She was deranged...dangerous as she may be, she couldn't evade capture for long. Maybe someone can go on a protracted rampage in a movie, but this was real life, and running around killing people indiscriminately will lead only to a swift arrest.

She got lucky with the first couple people she killed. She fooled the hospital into thinking she was harmless, so they weren't expecting her to strike. The ones she murdered on the road weren't anticipating it either. Since then, every police department in 200 miles had been alerted, patrols increased, and an army of cops, civilian volunteers, and elements of the Michigan National Guard swept the night. If anything moved out there, they would know.

A surge of confidence went through him. It was going to be okay. His family would be okay, Leni would be okay, and the new life hopefully forming in her womb would be okay too.

Done, he zipped up his pants and flushed, then went to the sink and washed his hands. He cut the spray, wiped them on a cloth, then opened the door, starting when he got a face full of Lola - she wore a long silky robe over her pink night dress and curlers in her hair. He grinned at his own jitteriness and moved aside. "All yours," he said.

"Thank you," she said and went in, turning. "Lana texted Mom, by the way. She just went to go get her."

Lincoln blinked. He completely forgot about Lana and the party. Mom was worried because of course she was, but he wasn't - Lana and Lily were the safest ones in the family right now. Well, aside from everyone who didn't live in Royal Woods. Luan and Clyde were safe too. Ronnie Anne wasn't after any of them - she was after him and Leni. "That's good," he said, then snorted to himself. "Hope she's not drunk or Mom will throw a fit."

"Probably," Lola said and started to close the door, "and she'll ground us both."

"Price you gotta pay for covering."

She hummed and shut the door.

Feeling much better than he had all day, he went downstairs. Detective Rudd was slumped in the armchair, the side of his face resting in his upturned palm and deep, sawing snores rising from his twitching nose. Lincoln stood over him for an indecisive moment, his innate politeness at odds with his innate wanting-to-know-if-the-danger-was-pastness. Finally he leaned over and shook the cop's shoulder. "Detective?"

Rudd jerked away and whipped his head around, his right hand fluttering to the gun under his left arm. Lincoln's heart burst. "It's just me, it's just me," he cried and threw his hands up, palms out.

Relaxing, Rudd fought to catch his breath. "You scared the shit out of me, kid," he said and shifted his weight, a look of discomfort flashing across his face.

"Sorry," Lincoln said and shoved his hands awkwardly into his pocket. "Have you heard anything?"

With a bear-like yawn, Rudd shook his head, and Lincoln's budding hope crashed to earth like a dead airliner. "Not yet," he said and smacked his lips, "I haven't heard anything in a while and you know what they say about no news being good news."

Actually, and maybe he was just pessimistic, Lincoln had always considered no news _bad_ news. Especially in a life or death situation like this.

Noticing his apprehension, Rudd waved his hand dismissively, "Don't worry about it. She'll be picked up sooner or later."

Lincoln figured, but still...why was it taking so long? And even though he didn't think she was going to explode through the wall like a bloodthirsty version of the Kool-Aid Man, every moment that passed with her free was a moment that he and his family _were_ in danger. He couldn't say he was shaking in terror, but he sure as shit wouldn't be able to rest easy until she was in the back of a police car.

Or in a body bag.

That thought struck him like a sniper's bullet and made him stumble. God, what a terrible thing to think! Ronnie Anne was sick, and despite it all, there was a time when he cared for her almost as deeply as he cared for Leni. Even today, with everything that had happened, if she was getting better and wanted him to visit her and offer support, he would in an instant. He would happily forgive her and be her friend again.

He didn't think that was feasible, though. He was the reason her mind snapped and his being around her would probably do her recovery more harm than good. He _wanted_ to see her get well, he did _not_ want to see her die.

But...God help him...if she did, he would breathe a sigh of relief; she would never harm or threaten his family ever again. Leni would always be safe, and so would their children.

A shiver went through his soul and his stomach turned. It was cold and callous, but right now, he _did_ wish for her to die...and he meant it.

Rudd leaned over, picked his coffee up from the table, and took a drink. "I say go about your night like normal."

This was _not_ a normal night, but Lincoln recognized good advice when he heard it. Nodding, he turned away and went back upstairs. A shower, he needed a shower. He went into his room, grabbed a pair of plaid lounge pants and a white T-shirt, then went to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him. He dropped his things onto the closed toilet lid, stripped, and turned the faucet on, the splash and gurgle of water flowing down the drain enough to mask all but the loudest sounds...

* * *

 **I listened to the theme from _Halloween_ (1978) while writing Rita's scene. Her death pays direct homage to a death in that movie. There's a death later on that pays homage to one from _Halloween 4: The Return of Michael Myers_. One of my all-time favorite horror movie kills: It involves a shotgun.**


	5. Home Invasion

**HangingSoul: I take each movie as it comes and don't particularly care whether or not the new** _ **Halloween**_ **movie is the "true" sequel. I like** _ **Halloween II**_ **and** _ **Halloween 4**_ **and that's really all I can say on the matter.**

 **Guest: Maria moved away.**

 **I forgot to mention (several times now) that the idea to have Leni and Lincoln have five kids and for the first letters of their name to spell out L-I-N-C-Y was totes AberrantScript's idea. I just stole it and put it on paper before he could. Take** _ **that**_ **, Abby.**

* * *

 _Meow_.

Lola Loud tapped the eraser of her pencil against the notebook before her and rolled her eyes to the ceiling in thought. How many people _did_ sign the Declaration of Independence? The number fifty-eight stood out, but she wasn't sure of it. She counted the names she knew and arrived at twenty-five. That number was _way_ too low, however. She remembered that John Hancock's signature was the biggest and situated in the middle because he was President of the Continental Congress, she remembered that five signers were captured by the British (George Walton, Thomas Heyward, Jr., Arthur Middleton, Edward Rutledge, and Richard Stockton), she even remembered that Robert E. Lee's grandfather Henry Lee signed it (or did he?), but she couldn't recall something as simple as a single number.

That irritated her.

 _Meow._

Something furry and warm brushed her bare leg and she sighed. "Buster, will you go away?"

The cat looked up at her with geen, curious eyes and meowed again, its tail swishing playfully back and forth. Pushing two and a half, Buster was a stray Lana found in a vacant lot on her way home from school last winter. He was frail, underweight, sick, full of fleas, and one of his paws was wounded - sometimes after too much play, he still limped.

Being a modern day Francis of Assisi (the Catholic patron saint of animals), Lana brought him home and nursed him back to health. Cliff had just died and Buster wound up pressed into service as the family pet, even though he slept with Lana every night and spent all of his free time hanging out on Lana's bed like a bum. If you couldn't find him, check there first.

Despite his devout attachment to Lana, he was friendly with everyone - he'd come right up to you and weave through your legs like you were his best friend even if he had no idea who you were. Lola couldn't lie, she loved the little creep, but he was so annoying sometimes. She'd be trying to do her homework, like now, and he'd either hop into her lap or jump on the vanity and strut across her work station like a cocksure rooster in a hen house. _Pet me instead of making good grades, I'm more funnerer._

Presently, he settled onto his haunches and looked expectantly up at her. He was extraordinarily cute, but she was extraordinarily preoccupied. "Go bother Lucy. Lana will be home soon." She turned back to the page and frowned. Alright, she thought with a deep breath, how many signers were there? She didn't think it was fifty-eight, but it was close. More than fifty, but less than sixty.

Damn it. This was starting to get on her nerves. She _hated_ history...English, too. Both are taught and learned by rote memorization. Science and mathematics actively engage the mind and require it to _work_ , history and English don't. She'd rather be working out complicated equations right now, but no, here she was stuck on how many men signed a piece of paper two hundred years ago. It was an important document, to be sure, but -

 _Meow_.

Lola shot a dirty look over her shoulder; Buster sat in front of the closet door, which stood slightly ajar, and sniffed at the crack. He probably had a mouse cornered; he was always hunting them down but never attacking. Other cats catch and kill, Buster caught and released. Which actually came in handy when a bunch of Lisa's lab mice escaped last month. Otherwise, as Pop-Pop used to say: Shit or get off the pot.

That made her smile despite herself. She didn't like English or linguistics very much, but she _was_ fond of old-fashioned euphemisms and colloquial irregularities - slang, expressions, etc. When she was a little girl she would hear something like _turn a blind eye_ or _cat got your tongue_ and wonder where they came from. Pop-Pop's were the most colorful, her favorite being: _Shit fire._ The whole thing was _shit fire and save matches,_ but he only ever said the first part.

She turned back to the page and stared down at what she wrote earlier, the names of every signer she could think of off the top of her head and a line or two about who they were or what became of them afterwards. It wasn't _imperative_ that she get the number right - her grades were good and she could take an A- with no negative effects on her hopes of getting into a good college - but it was important to _her._ From the time she was a baby, everyone always crowed over how _beautiful_ she was. They never said anything about her personality or her intelligence, they fawned incessantly over her appearance and treated everything else as though it didn't matter...as if _she_ didn't matter, the Lola within. When she was eight, she had enough and decided that she wanted to be more than a pretty face, and since then she worked tirelessly to break free of her beauty pageant past. Part of the reason she didn't date, unbeknownst to Lana who could be too superficial sometimes, was because none of the boys she met were interesting or intelligent...and none wanted _her_ to be interesting or intelligent. They just wanted her to look pretty while they did her.

Uh, no, sorry. I had that before and I do _not_ want it again.

A loud thunk sounded behind her, and she jumped. The closet door was closed now, and Buster clawed at it from the inside. She rolled her eyes and heaved a long suffering sigh. "You're stuck now, aren't you?" she asked.

 _Scratch-scratch-scratch._

Yep. He was stuck.

She had half a mind to leave him in there until she was finished, but though she may have been a little...ahem...sadistic when she was younger, she was _not_ the type of girl to do that today. Even if she was totally justified in doing so. She laid her pencil down, uncrossed her legs, and got to her feet. Buster's scratching grew more frantic then cut out when he presumably realized clawing the door wasn't going to help. "Yeah," she said as she crossed to the door, "you should have thought about that _before_ you decided to trap yourself in the closet."

Laying her hand on the knob, she started to turn it, but froze when something hit the window. Her grip tightened on the handle and she twisted around, her heart slamming into overdrive.

A terrible creature peered into the room and her blood turned to ice water. A scream bubbled up in her throat, but died when she recognized it. A bat.

Relief washed through her and she laughed at her foolishness. Just a bat. Real scary, Lola. Ooooh, it eats insects, run for the hills.

Buster thumped against the door and it vibrated in its frame. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Dumb cat. He was lucky he was cute and fluffy, otherwise she wouldn't let him in the room when Lana wasn't here.

She turned the knob and opened the door. "Alright, Bu -"

Her words cut off when she caught sight of the monster grinning back at her, its sallow flesh sagging down its face and its black eyes burning with malice. Her heart dropped into her stomach, and before she could scream it lifted something long and hard to its hip and charged; Lola's eyes widened when the wood closet pole rammed into her midsection, cracking ribs and sinking deep into her chest cavity. Fiery, stinging pain engulfed her and she was driven back, blood bursting from her lips and gushing down her chin. The thing lifted the rod and Lola with it, her pink-polished toes spasmodically brushing the carpet.

The pole punched through Lola's back, grazing her spine, and she sucked a reflexive breath, drawing blood into her lungs. The thing pushed her back against the wall, the rod smashing the plaster and tacking Lola in place like a macabre decoration. The thing let go and stepped back, its breathing ragged with excitement, and Lola's body convulsed as death settled in, tremors racing through her frame and her toes curling and uncurling.

Darkness stole rapidly over her, and with it the cold of approaching night. Her vision dimmed, and just before she died, a revelation, jogged loose from her mind, dropped into the light.

Fifty-six.

Fifty-six people signed the Declaration of Independence.

Lola's body went limp and her head lolled forward, her chin against her chest and her blonde hair veiling her bloodless face. Ronnie Anne tilted her head to one side and studied the corpse as though she'd never seen one before. She _thought_ the girl was dead, but she could still hear her voice echoing through the chambers of her skull, her inflection cruel, haughty, and taunting, just as her tone had _always_ been. Of Lincoln's sisters, she disliked Lola the most...aside from Leni. She was a snooty little bitch who thought she was better than everyone else just because she was Lincoln's sister and he loved her.

But not anymore...you can't love that which is dead.

A knife-blade smile carved across Ronnie Anne's face and she turned to the half-closed door opening on the hall.

Now, she thought and slipped her ax out from her jumpsuit, it was time for the rest.

* * *

Lincoln emerged from the bathroom in a puff of steam, a towel wrapped around his waist and another draped over his shoulders. His damp white hair was plastered to his scalp and water glistened on his naked chest. Most nights he let Leni comb his hair because she enjoyed _styling my Lincy_ and he liked playing the part of the contented cat being scratched behind its ears. Right now, she was probably too busy making that baby blanket, so he'd just let it air dry.

At her door, he leaned against the frame and watched her feeding fabric through the machine, tiny metal pins jutting out from between her clamped lips and crazily reminding him of a cigar chomping newspaper editor. _I want pictures of Spiderman on my desk by 5pm._ Her face was a blank slate and she moved nary a muscles other than the ones required to complete the task at hand. She was so energetic and outgoing that it was always a bit of a shock to see her work - she entered the proverbial zone and almost nothing could rouse her...except for affectionate kisses and playing with her hair, those _always_ brought her out of her reprieve.

He briefly considered going over, hugging her from behind, and attacking her face with his lips, but decided against it. Instead, he went to his room, grabbed his toothbrush from the dresser, and carried it into the bathroom. With so many people in the house growing up, everyone kept their toiletries in their rooms so as not to overwhelm the john. There weren't as many people in the Loud house these days, but old habits die hard. Plus, after seeing that episode of _Seinfeld_ where Jerry accidentally knocked someone's toothbrush into the toilet and then put it back like nothing happened, he wanted to keep a closer eye on things. Some people might call that strange, but to him it made perfect sense. He could totally see Lily or Lana doing the same thing. Lana especially. She probably wouldn't even think twice. _Toilet water's the best_ kind _of water_ he could hear her saying.

Switching the light on, he went to the sink, grabbed the Crest from its spot by the soap dish, and squeezed some onto the bristles, rolling the bottom of the tube up to get enough for the job. He bared his teeth and started to brush, making sure to get as far back as he could. When he was younger, he _neglected his dental hygiene_ as his dentist would say. He brushed once or twice a week and never gargled with mouthwash. That changed when he was seventeen: He was eating a salad and bit down on a crouton, not knowing he had a cavity. Th pain was _exquisite_. Felt like he tried to eat a rock. After having it filled, he vowed to never slack on his oral care again - he brushed twice a day (sometimes three), used mouthwash, and rinsed with water after every meal.

Opening his mouth, he flipped the brush and worked it along his bicuspids. In the mirror, Lucy's door opened and she came out into the hall, her head down. Lincoln's eyes darted away and to his teeth. That should be good. He bent, spat, and cupped his hands under the faucet, collecting water and then sucking it up. He swished it around then spat again. Cutting the spray, he stood, and the hall was empty.

He sat the brush down, pulled on his lounge pants, then his T, then carried the brush back into his room, where he laid it on his dresser. In the hall, he started toward Leni's room, but stopped at Lola's door. He hadn't seen her in a while and though that wasn't uncommon (you can't be up your sister's butt 24/7) given the circumstances...he wanted to check on her. He lifted his hand to knock but paused when Leni called his name.

"What?" he replied.

"Come here," she piped, "I got something to _show_ you."

Letting his hand drop, he walked over to Leni's door and leaned against the frame. She turned in her chair and preened. "I'm finished with the blanket."

Lincoln blinked in surprise. Done? She worked fast, but jeez, she literally just started it.

She must have seen the doubt on his face; she held it up, her fingers pinching the silky blue fringe. The side facing him was pink with a teddy bear and the words TOTES CUTE in white cursive. She flipped it around; blue with a little building block and TOTES HANDSOME. She trembled with excitement like a small dog, and Lincoln couldn't suppress a chuckle. "So? Do you like it?" she asked urgently, a faint shadow of anxiety crossing her features.

"I love it," he said. He went over and stroked the side of her face, the pad of his thumb skimming her chin.

She beamed proudly. "I'm gonna start another one." She twisted around and opened the drawer where she kept her fabric. "Should I make it a boy one or a girl one?" she asked and touched her index finger to the side of her face.

"Boy," Lincoln said off the top of his head.

Leni's finger tapped her cheekbone in a steady monotone. She was already entering the zone and probably didn't hear him. "I know," she finally decided, "girl." She turned to him. "Do you want to watch me work?" she asked, her voice sobering. There was an almost pleading edge that told him she wanted to spend time with him before their night ended and they were forced to part. That was probably the hardest thing about living at home and keeping their relationship a secret from their mother, not being able to be open with their affections. For obvious reasons they couldn't sleep in the same bed together, at least without risking discovery.

Earlier, he agreed that it was time for them to tell their mother and move out on their own. He did so with a twinge of reluctance, but right now, he felt a twinge of something _else_ : Wanting to get the hell out of here so he could hold his Leni through the night and never have to let her go. "Sure," he said.

Leni brightened. Lincoln crossed the room, got the extra chair from its post in the corner (moving a stack of fashion magazines in the process) and brought it over. He sat and laid his hand on Leni's leg, his palm coming to rest on the hem of her dress. She scooted to the edge of her seat to be as close to him as possible and their knees knocked. She grinned mischievously. "If you watch close, you might, like, learn a thing or two."

"Yeah?" he asked with faux incredulity.

She nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing to sly little slits. "Umhm. I'm gonna totes turn you into a clothes makerer that way you can make clothes for _me."_

He cupped the back of her neck in his hand and squeezed. "Alright. I promise to watch and take notes."

"Good," she said, and turned to the sewing machine. "You're gonna need 'em."

* * *

Frank Rudd woke himself up with a deep snore, his drooping eyelids blinking open and his lips smacking.

He was nestled in the armchair with his legs straight out in front of him and his arms wrapped around his considerable chest, his head lolling to one side and resting against his shoulder. He tried to lift it, and pain shot through his neck; he winced and sucked a sharp intake of air through his teeth. Shit. He shifted his weight, and the muscles in his lower back clenched like an angry fist. Squeezing his eyes closed, he sat up straight, a long, agonized groan passing his lips.

When the discomfort subsided, he stretched his arms and yawned. Twenty years ago, he worked all night stakeouts like nothing, now he he could barely keep himself awake past 9pm. What time was it, anyway? He glanced at the TV: A scrubbed and polished weatherman in a tailored suit stood in front of a regional map dotted with words and numbers that Rudd had to squint to see. ELK PARK: 43. ROYAL WOODS 46. CHIPPEWA FALLS: 39. " _...day for tomorrow. Temps will be in the sixties across the viewing area and maybe even into the low seventies for Royal Woods and points south."_

Some time past ten if the news was on. Maybe even as late as eleven. He dug in his pocket for his phone and pulled it out, his thumb pressing the button on the side. 10:24. He'd been here since...five? Six? Long enough that he and the credenza were on a first name basis at. Despite being older and a _little_ overweight, he'd rather be out and about than slumped in a chair. At least pounding the pavement would stave off the fatigue and keep his blood pumping.

He reached for his coffee cup and found it empty. He'd give himself a goddamn heart attack if he had anymore. Even so, he got to his feet and arched his back, his free hand going to his right hip to massage a sore spot. It was amazing the difference two decades makes in a man. Twenty years is not a long time in the grand scheme of things - a grain of sand on the shore of time, really - but for a person, it's like night and day. When he was a young man, he could sit, stand, run, and crouch for hours on end with no ill effects. Nowadays, just _thinking_ about moving wrong set him screaming for the Ben-Gay. The scariest part was how damn fast the years crept up on him; one minute he was a patrolman barely into his twenties and the next he was fifty-six and riddled with aches and pains; his knees ground when he bent them and if he stepped too hard his hip bone rolled. If he was a horse like the kind his uncle used to breed, he'd have been lead out back and shot ten years ago.

The more he thought about it, the better retirement sounded. He could move to Florida where brutal, marrow chilling winters didn't exist, play golf, eat dinner at four o'clock, and watch _The Golden Girls_ on Nick at Nite while he waited to fall asleep.

He stopped and tilted his head back in a gesture of reconsideration. The Florida part sounded nice, but turning into his grandfather did not.

Frankly, the idea of retiring intimidated him. He'd enjoy it for a little while, but he knew himself, and he'd get bored after three months. He was unmarried, had no children, and only saw his nieces at Thanksgiving and Christmas; the only people he knew outside of work were his neighbors, Fred and Martha, and he couldn't stand either one of them. If he retired, he'd have no idea what the hell to do with himself. Grow a spice garden? Tape _The Weather Channel_ so that he could watch it later? Ha. He'd rather get shot in the line of duty.

Before going into the kitchen, he shuffled to the front window and pulled the curtain to one side. The night was unchanged; the trees up and down the darkened street rustled in the breeze and the street lamp continued casting its hellish glow upon the cruiser's hood. The moon was higher than it was before, its face leering through interlaced branches like a peeping tom. Didn't the lunar cycle affect crazy people? Asylums supposedly explode with activity during the full moon, every nut up one side of the hall and down the other barking, stomping, and banging their head against the wall. Wonder what it's doing to the Santiago girl.

His stomach turned at that. He flashed back to what she did to those people at the gas station, one hanged upside down, throat slashed, and the other disemboweled, their guts heaped around them like a pile of rope sausage. The body they found by the side of the highway, hidden in the tall grass, had its neck snapped. How in the hell could a 105 pound woman break someone's neck? How could she hang a fully grown man upside down from a fucking rafter? He didn't know and it had been bothering him all night, now, as he stared upon the bright face of the moon, the sky around it glowing ghostly white, he thought he knew.

A shudder went through him and he turned away, letting the curtain fall back into place. His eyes went to the TV screen, where a woman in a pink blazer sat behind an anchor desk, her expression one of practiced neutrality. " _...are searching this hour for an escaped mental patient who, they say, has claimed five lives in a cross-state killing spree."_

Video played of police cruisers patrolling residential streets; bloodhounds leading uniforms through knee-high grass; and a roadblock outside Kitzmiller, burning flares laid out on either side of the road and state policemen in crisp campaign hats walking a line of idling cars with dogs and flashlights.

 _All that and we still can't find her,_ he thought with a flush. Earlier he caught himself thinking of her as Jason Voorhees, now he was starting to wonder if she was a ghost instead.

He shook his head and went into the kitchen. At the threshold, he missed a beat: One of the girls, the goth, stood at the sink with her back to him and her head down, her hands splayed on the countertop. She wore a black dress that stopped above her knees and a pair of clunky black boots with red laces. What was her name again? Lucy, that was it. He dated a Lucy in high school. Her last name was Westenra and she had fiery red hair...had a nice butt too.

Lucy didn't speak or move, and for some reason Rudd felt awkward. He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at the table, where a slice of pie sat on a plate next to a steaming mug of coffee. "That's for you," Lucy said flatly, her voice barely above a mumble.

Rudd's stomach rumbled. "Thank you," he said and went over, sitting in the chair; it creaked dangerously under his weight but held. He picked up the mug, blew a curl of steam away, and took a sip. It was hot and sweet and good, like coffee should be. He tried to think of something to say to break the uncomfortable silence. "This is taking a lot longer than I thought," he said with a chuckle. He sat the cup down, picked up the fork, and carved a piece of the pie off. 'For my money, she's hiding under someone's back porch." Even as he spoke those words, the truth in them dawned on him. "That's gotta be it. Every cop in the area's out there right now." He tossed a glance over his shoulder; Lucy nodded her agreement. He turned, shoved the pie into his mouth, and chewed. Cherry. Nice, flaky crust, tart filling.

Taking a sip of coffee, Rudd sighed. "I still think we'll get her before sunrise." He cut another piece.

Behind him, Lucy lifted her head and stood up straight. She reached out, closed her fingers around the black handle of a butcher knife, and slowly, deliberately, turned, like a woman on a carousel. Her pallid, blood speckled flesh sagged down her face like drooping wax and her ragged eyeholes revealed not her eyes but someone else's, wide and muddled with insanity. A tongue darted out from the mouth beneath and licked her cold, dead lips, tasting her chilled saliva. The mask began to slip, and one brown hand pressed it against her face, the tacky, drying blood holding it in place.

Beginning to pant, Ronnie Anne took a silent step forward.

"I remember fifteen years ago," Rudd said around a mouthful and jabbed his fork at the wall, "a couple guys broke out the county jail and stole a car, took a woman hostage. Real pieces of work." He swallowed and took a drink.

Ronnie Anne's feet made no noise as they crossed the floor. Her heart raced at the promise of a fresh kill; she could already feel his hot blood on her hands, hear his dying screams like music in her head.

"...a week," he was saying, his posture relaxed. "They got into Canada and the mounties got 'em." He laughed.

She stopped at the back of the chair, so close she could smell his aftershave through Lucy's nose. His rumpled suit coat stretched tight across his shoulders as he hunched over his plate, the vulnerable nape of his neck exposed. "You'd be surprised how good those mounties are," he said.

Sneering, she lifted the knife above her head.

Rudd rasped laughter. "In fact, they -"

She flashed the knife down with all her might; it plunged deep into his neck at an angle, the blade piercing through the back of his throat and poking out of his mouth in a spray of blood like an alien chestburster. A jarring vibration ran up her arm and Rudd's body jerked, the chair collapsing under his weight and spilling him to the floor, the knife ripping from her hand. He toppled to one side and twitched amidst the splintered wood like a crushed bug, his spasming movements quickly ceasing as he lost consciousness. She stood over him for a long time, her shoulders rising and falling with the tide of her excited breathing, then she nudged him with her foot.

He didn't move.

Satisfied, she squatted down, grabbed the knife handle, and pulled the blade out like Excalibur from the fabled stone; it made a wet squelching sound as it withdrew, and once it was free, rich, red blood welled out of the wound. She held it up to the light and studied it closely...then brought it to her lips and licked, the coppery taste of pennies filling her mouth. A shiver of delight raced down her spine, and, getting onto her knees, she pressed her lips to the entry wound and greedily sucked like a vampire.

 _Not one of us, not one of us,_ the Louds chanted. She rocked back and looked around, but didn't see any of them. _You're totes not Lincy's sister,_ Leni said.

"Yes I am," she said and got to her feet, her hand clutching the knife tighter. She took a step toward the threshold to the living room, wood crackling under her foot.

She _was_ Lincoln's sister...and she was about to prove it.

Once and for all.


	6. Cries in the Night

**STR2D3PO: I like watching them around Halloween too. I've never seen the third one, but I know a lot of people don't like it. From what I've seen over the past couple years, though, a lot of fans are starting to reappraise it and develop a new appreciation for it.**

 **Guest: She killed Rita, Lola, Lucy, then Rudd.**

* * *

Leni sat back from the sewing machine and took a deep breath, the corners of her mouth turning up in a elfin simper. "That's, like, all for now, folks," she said in imitation of Porky Pig. Lincoln studied the half-finished blanket: It was a mixture of blue and pink threads that could serve either gender equally...though Lincoln couldn't say he was crazy about putting a boy in pink. It looked nice, though - she decided shortly after getting started that she didn't want it to _just be for a girl, I want it to totes be both again. That was fun._

Yawning, Lincoln nodded his agreement. "Yeah, believe it or not, I'm bushed."

They'd been sitting there for nearly a half an hour, which meant he'd been awake for less than two hours, but he was tired again and looking forward to bed.

A vague shadow of anxiety rippled across Leni's face and she turned to him. "Lincy, do you -?"

"Yes," he said, cutting her off. He already knew what she was going to ask, and he was already planning on it. They rarely slept in the same bed, but tonight they would...so that he could protect her from harm, if it came, and as a declaration of their newfound independence. As soon as this was over, he decided...tomorrow, surely, he and Leni would hold hands and go to their mother with the news of their relationship. His stomach rolled at the possibility of her taking it hard, but he loved Leni and that was that. He couldn't pretend any longer that she was just his sister and he'd rather have Mom angry or upset with them over the truth than live a lie.

Scrunching her shoulders happily, Len smiled. "Your room or mine?" she asked.

"Yours," he said pointedly. On the rare occasions that they did sleep together, it was always in his room, since there was less chance of Mom barging in. She didn't make it a habit to walk into her adult children's rooms unannounced but old habits die hard. It didn't matter if she walked in now: For one, he could always pass it off as Leni being afraid of Ronnie Anne, and for two...he didn't particularly want her to find out in such a dramatic fashion, but...it'd at least save him having to bring it up and explain it.

Leni leaned over and pecked his lips. "Okay." She got to her feet, and her stomach rumbled. She frowned. "The baby's hungry," she said seriously.

"We don't know if there's a baby in there," Lincoln said but grinned widely anyway. "And if it there is, it's way too little to be hungry."

Rolling her eyes, Leni said, "I _know_ that, Lincy. I was trying to blame it on him-or-her so I don't, like, look like a pig."

Lincoln laughed. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm hungry too." He stood and towered over her, his hands fluttering to her shapely hips -perfect for childbearing, he thought. They felt _right_ in his grip, just as she felt _right_ in his arms and her lips felt _right_ on his. Lincoln didn't think of himself as a hopeless romantic (though maybe he kind of was), but it was almost like she was made specifically for him and he for her. Their everything matched perfectly together. They both might fit with other people, but never as deeply, totally, and seamlessly as with each other.

The greatest tragedy of their love, Lincoln thought, was that they were born siblings. Why, he couldn't say, but, the way he saw it, nature makes mistakes sometimes. A woman is born in a man's body and a man in a woman's. Can not two soulmates, be accidentally birthed of the same parents?

That was question he had been asking himself for ten years and he still didn't have a satisfying answer. She was undoubtedly tailored for him and vice versa, and that was all there was to it in the end.

Weaving her fingers through his and beaming in happiness, Leni squeezed his hand and lead him into the hall. "There's cherry pie," I think she said over her shoulder, then frowned. "Unless that cop ate it all. He looks like he likes pie."

Lincoln snorted. "That was mean."

"Why?" Leni asked, her frown deepening.

He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. He inferred that she was talking about his weight, but her evident puzzlement told him that she wasn't. "Nevermind," he said. As they walked, his phone weighed his pants down like a rock and he had to hold them up. At the head of the stairs, he let go of Leni's hand, "I'm gonna put my phone away."

"Okay," she said, "meet you in the kitchen."

Lincy went into his room and Leni's eyes lingered on his cute little butt. When they had sex and he was on top, she liked grabbing it and holding on; it was firm and warm and squishy in her hands and looked really good in jeans. He was, like, the perfect guy - cute, smart, funny, and really gentle. Those were all reasons she fell in love with him in the first place. She thought back to the time she skinned her knee and he made her better. That was the moment she knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him - he made her feel safe and warm and loved, and she couldn't _wait_ to make him a daddy so their baby could feel the same way.

A dreamy smile played across her lips and she took a deep breath because there was so much warm fuzzies in her chest that it was, like, pressing against her lungs and making it hard to breathe. She was really looking forward to their five babies, each with a name whose beginning letter spelled out LINCY. She wanted more babies than just that, but she didn't want to mess up the name thing. Ooooh, if they had eight more it could be LINCY I LOVE YOU. That would be a lot of babies, though. She did a quick count and arrived at the number thirteen. That wasn't _so_ bad, she figured. Her parents had eleven kids, what's two more?

Smiling real big now, she turned and started down the stairs just as Lucy started up, her head down and her steps slow and deliberate. A greeting formed on Leni's lips but died when Lucy lifted her head.

There was something wrong with her face.

Aside from all the blood.

It hung slack on her skull and dropped like saggy, flabby skin, and the flesh around the edges was ragged and torn, resembling a piece of fabric ripped from a dress. Her eyes and mouth were really strange too, like double, kind of like...she was wearing a mask.

Her step faltered and her eyes flashed. Leni's blood turned to ice water because in that moment, she knew that wasn't Lucy. She was wearing Lucy's clothes and had her hair back in a ponytail just like Lucy's, but her eyes were different. They say they are the window to the soul, and what Leni saw in that...thing...was not her sister.

Letting out a snake-like hiss, the Lucy-thing lifted a bloody knife. " _Mine!"_

Ronnie Anne.

Terror burst in Leni's chest like a bomb and she issued a high, throat-shredding scream. She fell back, and her calves connected with the edge of the tread; she went down hard on her butt, the air exploding from her lungs in rush.

Grinning evilly, Ronnie Anne climbed the stairs, lumbering and inexorable like the march of time. Leni's brain screamed at her to get up and run, but her muscles were locked and all she could do was watch, her body trembling in fear. Something grabbed her from behind, and she shrieked hysterically, her hands going up and clawing the air. Kicking her legs, she was dragged back and deposited on the floor, not realizing it was by Lincy until he screamed at her to run. She tried to get up, but couldn't; strangled sobs blasted from her throat and her heart slammed so fast and hard she couldn't hear anything over it. Bending frantically over her and hooking his arms under her shoulders, Lincy pulled her to her feet just as Ronnie Anne appeared on the third-to-last step, the knife preceding her like the fin of a shark. Leni screamed, and Lincy threw a horrified glance over his shoulder. "Go!" he yelled and shoved her toward Lola's door. She fumbled at the knob, her hand shaking and her tears streaming down her face. Ronnie Anne stood at the top of the stairs now, watching them with her head cocked. She took a jittery step forward, and Leni turned the handle. She and Lincoln spilled in and he slammed it behind them so hard it rattled in its frame. He thumbed the lock and threw himself against; Leni didn't realize they were in total darkness until he flipped the switch and light flooded the room.

What she saw made her scream so hard her vision grayed.

Lola lay on her bed with her arms outstretched and her legs crossed at the ankles in a gruesome parody of Christ on the cross. A long piece of wood jutted from her chest and her chin lolled against her left shoulder. Her eyes, glazed with death, stare sightlessly at the wall and blood dripped down her chin.

A giant, heart-shaped box of chocolates sat wedged between the top of her head and the headboard like a gravestone. It was pink with BE MINE in white across the front.

"Oh, my God," Lincoln moaned, his stomach twisting violently.

He didn't have time to process the grizzly sight before him; the knob rattled and his heart clapped with fear. Something pounded hard against the door, and he stumbled away, spinning toward it and casting hs eyes around the room in search of something, anything, to use as a weapon.

The knob rattled again, then a fist slammed against the door. "Let me in!" Ronnie Anne cried. "I'm your sister. You can love me now!"

Leni whimpered pitably, her arms wrapped protectively around her chest and her knees pressed together.

Pounding harder, Ronnie Anne shrieked in fury. "Let me in, goddamn it! Let me in! Let me in! Let me in!"

His mind raced, thoughts whipping past in a blur. His heart throbbed against his ribs and his stomach lurched with each _bang_. He had to think, think, think, think. He looked frantically around and landed on the dresser. He could move it in front of the door and then...he didn't know. Call the cops. Yeah, yeah, yeah, call the cops.

Coming alive, he hurried over, grabbed the dresser in a bear hug, and wrestled it in front of the door, which shuddered against Ronnie Anne's assault: She battered it with a desperate flurry of kicks and punches, howling in frustration. "I'M YOUR SISTER! LET ME IN!" She gave one final punch then silence crashed down around them, the only noise the sound of his own ragged breathing and Leni's soft whimpering.

Turning, Lincoln went to his sister and held her at arm's length; her eyes were squeezed closed and her head shook back and forth as if in denial of what was happening. "Do you have your phone?" he asked and spared a worried glance over his shoulder.

Nothing.

For some reason, that was more terrible than the wall shattering banging - at least then he knew where she was. Right now, she could be anywhere.

He turned back to Leni; her face was drawn and shivers tore through her body. Water stained her cheeks and her lips trembled. He pressed his palm to her clammy forehead, and his heart sank. She was going into shock if she wasn't already there. Shit. This was _not_ good. He let go of her arm and hurriedly patted her down, his gaze returning to the door.

Nothing.

"Shit," he spat through his teeth,

It hit him. Lola's phone. He pushed away from Leni and went to the vanity. He didn't see it. Not giving up, he sifted through the things crowded on the surface, then flashed in anger and swept a line of perfume bottles onto the floor. "It's gotta be here -"

Something slammed against the door, and wood splintered. Leni cried out and he turned just as Ronnie Anne ripped the ax out and brought it down again, the blade hacking through in a shower of breaking slivers.

Lincoln's heart dropped into his stomach. She was coming in and there was no stopping her. He had to get Leni out of here and to safety.

The ax hit the door again, then ripped a chunk out; a shaft of light fell in from the hall and lay across the top of the dresser, blotting out when Ronnie Anne pressed her face to it. Lincoln's muscles froze when their eyes locked. Ten years ago, he gazed deeply into them and saw warm brown flecked with gold. Right now, he saw only soullessness. " _MINE!"_

She drew back, and the blade sank into the door, the sound of cracking bringing him out of his reprieve. He turned and his eyes went to the window. It was their only chance.

Bushing past Leni, he went to it and tried the sash, but it wouldn't budge. He remembered coming in and locking it earlier. He flipped the tab with a trembling hand and pushed it up, a cold breeze sweeping into the room like a sadistic spirit come to watch the ghastly proceedings. The blade tore into the wood, and Leni uttered a sharp scream. Pushing away from the sill, he grabbed her by her arms and spun her around. "We have to go out the window."

 _CRACK!_

Leni's face went white and she jerkily shook her head.

"We _have_ to." Keeping the panic from his voice was the hardest thing he had ever done. He looked over her shoulder just as the blade came down again.

 _CRACK!_

Fractures crisscrossed the wood and a big, ragged hole opened in the center. Ronnie Anne stuck her arm through and tried to push the dresser over but only succeeded in making it wobble. He couldn't wait any longer; if he did, she'd get in and hurt Leni.

Holding her arm tight, he pulled her to the window, her heels dragging against the carpet. "Come on!" he cried, and this time fear _did_ creep in, and like a slap, it seemed to snap Leni out of it. She allowed herself to be lead. "Feet first," Lincoln quavered.

 _CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!_

Lincoln helped Leni over the sill bottom first, his hands clutching her forearms. She slid and yelped in fear.

 _CRASH!_

He jerked a glance over his shoulder and started. The dresser lay in front of the door, blocking it. The hole was bigger now, jagged shards of wood jutting like teeth in the maw of a cave-dwelling beast. Ronnie Anne stuck her arms through, one hand gripping the ax, then her upper half. The mask - his sister's fucking face - plopped onto the overturned dresser with a wet, meaty sound and Ronnie Anne's blood slicked countencence stared back at him, eyes burning with sickly madness and the corners of her lips turned up in a cold, dead smile.

Turning back to Leni, he braced his feet against the wall and leaned forward, lowering her as best he could. She dangled well above the ground, her legs kicking in mid air. She squeezed her eyes closed and dug her nails frantically into his flesh like a falling cat seeking desperate purchase. Lincoln slipped and nearly went over the ledge; his heart bounced and Leni screamed.

 _CRACK!_

He looked over his shoulder again. Ronnie Anne was perched on the dresser like a stone gargoyle on the parapet of a gothic citadel, her feet stuck in the plyboard back, reminding him incoherently of a woman sinking in quicksand. "You have to let go," he said.

Leni opened her eyes; they were pooled with heart-breaking terror, tears shimmering and overspilling her sallow cheeks. "I-I can't," she stuttered.

 _CRASH!_

Ronnie Anne stood to her full height and kicked through the dresser like a muscle-head kicking a child's sand castle. She looked up, saw him, and snarled. " _Mine."_

"You have to!"

"I-I'm scared."

Ronnie Anne took a step forward and brought the ax up.

Hating himself even though it was all he could think to do, he twisted his arms roughly, and Leni's hold broke. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped...then she fell, the hem of her dress fluttering around her like wings.

With a hollow thud, she hit the ground in a heap. Lincoln threw himself to the left just as the blade arched down; it slammed into the sill, the edge sticking.

Acting on pure reflex, he jumped to his feet. Ronnie Anne pulled the ax out and turned; Lincoln's fist connected with her mouth, and her head whipped to one side...then back, her eyes flashing. He punched her again, and again she abrobed the blow like a masochistic sponge.

Screaming, she lifted the ax and spun it, the flat end coming down hard on his head; white light burst inside his skull, then darkness, his body falling limply to the floor. Standing over him and heaving, Ronnie Anne stared down at his face; blood trickled from an ugly gash across his temple and his closed eyelids fluttered rapidly. His jaw hung slack, glistening lips slightly parted as his lungs automatically drew shallow breaths. Ronnie Anne's heart swelled with love and she dropped to her knees, the ax clunking to the floor.

He was even more beautiful than she remembered, his features rugged and manly, stubble covering his strong chin and his muscular arms well-defined. Her core twinged and her heartbeat sped up as she leaned over him, her hands resting on the tops of her legs. She bit her lower lip and blushed coyly...then bent, took his face in her hands, and kissed him, her slimy tongue slithering into his mouth like a worm and lapping hungrilly. The taste of his breath and the clean scent of his skin made her tremble with anticipation. She sucked a sharp inhalation and raked the tip of her tongue across the inside of his cheeks, her hands running over his chest, tracing the outline of his pecs and stroking down his stomach, fingertips brushing closer to his -

A face emerged from the lust fogging her brain like a jack-in-the-box popping out with a taunting smile.

Leni.

She had to get Leni... _then_ should could have Lincoln.

Grabbing the ax, she got to her feet and stared longingly down at her betrothed. "Soon," she said, then went after the homewrecking bitch who started this.

* * *

Leni lay on her side, broken moans rising from her lips and pain streaking up her right leg. She sucked a mouthful of cold night air and a stitch flared in her side, making her wince. She moved her head, and shaggy grassy tickled her cheek like the fleeting of spider legs.

A shiver went through her and a strangled sob bubbled up from her throat when she remembered Ronnie Anne. Her heartbeat quickened and she pushed herself to a sitting position even though everything hurt. An image of Lola lying dead on her bed flashed across her mind, and fresh tears welled in her eyes. Where was Lincy? She needed him.

Oh no! He was still up there! She glanced worriedly at the window; light spilled through and glowed against the darkness, but she couldn't see him. Terror clutched her chest and she staggered to her feet, the pain in her ankle hot, red, and excruciating. She clenched her teeth and took a limping step toward the street, her body bending at the waist. She hurt so bad but she needed to get help for Lincy.

She shuffled toward the street, hissing through her teeth at the pain. At the corner of the house, she leaned heavily against the siding and scanned the sidewalk. She spotted a cop car sitting at the opposite curb, and her heart skipped with hope. She shoved away and hurried as fast as she could, tears streaming down her face at the owies in her leg; it was so bad she, like, felt dizzy and sick. She reached the driveway and stumbled on the uneven asphalt, a moan ripping from her lips. The street stood empty and alone save for the wind, the car so close yet so far away.

Her resolve wavered and she nearly gave up, but Lincy needed her, so she pushed on, going faster, ambling across the desolate blacktop. "Help me!" she cried, her voice a breaking croak. "Please help!"

Two dark shapes sat in the car. Neither moved.

"Please!" she sobbed. She came to the side and leaned into the open driver side window. "Ronnie Anne -"

Her words cut off in a scream of horror. The policeman behind the wheel sat slumped over, a messy red gash across his throat. The one in the passenger seat slouched to one side, his severed head sitting in his lap like a favorite pet. Her hands went to her face and she fell back, her ankle throbbing unnoticed.

She whipped a frenzied glance up and down the street. Nothing moved but the wind and the light of the moon, the former slipping through the barren boughs of the trees and the latter filtering through the shaking branches and swaying across the pavement. To her left, a porch light shone like a beacon in the darkness, and she started toward it, her limp deeper, the pain worse. She wasn't aware that she was crying openly, her hitching sobs echoing in the desolate night, or that she shook with fear. She only knew one thing: She needed help, Lincy needed help - Ronnie Anne was going to get them if she didn't find it.

At a gait, Leni crossed the the front lawn and climbed the steps, her hand trailing the bannister. At the top, she pitched forward and landed on her hands and knees, her skin tearing on a nail head and splinters stabbing her palms. She felt neither.

Getting her feet under her, she lumbered to the door and collapsed against it with a moan. She balled her fist and pounded. "Help me!" she hitched. "Please help me!" She looked over her shoulder. 1216 Franklin stood stark and ominous, its windows blazing with hellish light. In that moment, it was not her home but a strange and threatening house of horrors.

She banged harder, desperately. "Help! God, help me!"

A face appeared in one of the little windows flanking the door, and Leni's heart leapt. "Please, help me, someone's trying to kill me!"

The face disappeared, and she expected the door to unlock and someone to usher her inside, but instead, the porch light went out, plunging her into darkness. "No, please!" She slammed her fist and cried harder. "Don't leave me."

Realizing the people here weren't going to help, she turned and limped to the top of the steps, freezing when Ronnie Anne came out of the house across the way, her shoulders squared and the ax lengthwise in her hands.

Panic filled Leni, and her instincts took over; holding the rail, she rushed down the stairs and ducked right, tottering headlong across the yard at an angle, the street to her left. Ronnie Anne spotted her and started after, hers the slow, leisurely stride of a woman who had all the time in the world...and every chance of catching her prey eventually. Leni went faster, her heart slamming. "Help me!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, her voice reverberating off the dark, shuddered facades of the houses lining the street. "GOD, HELP ME!" She hobbled onto the sidewalk and threw a glance back - Ronnie Anne kept pace, a wicked, self-satisfied grin on her sunken face.

Leni was in the middle of the street now, shuffling aimlessly south, no help and no hope in sight. "HELP!" she shrieked. "HELP ME!"

"There is no help," Ronnie Anne called. "You're gonna die."

Leni screamed.

* * *

In Lola's bedroom, Lincoln stirred and muttered, his hand fluttering weakly to his aching head. His throat was dry and his stomach turned; he felt like he was going to throw up. He grimaced when his fingertips touched tender flesh, then creaked one bleary eye open when they came away wet. He held them in front of his face and tried to make sense of the red, sticky liquid. What happened? The last thing he remembered was him and Leni -

It came back to him in a rush, and his eyes widened. Lola, Ronnie Anne, Leni.

LENI.

He sat up, and a wave of vertigo crashed over him; agony flared over his right eye and hot bile filled the back of his throat. He ignored it and got to his feet, his legs shaky and his knees like rubber. God, he had to hurry, Leni was in danger and if he didn't, something would happen to her.

Mindless in his dread, he kicked through the shattered remains of the dresser and tripped going through the door, his hands shooting out and catching the wall before he could go down. He tried to stand straight, but his legs wouldn't support him. Letting out a wordless cry of frustration, he leaned his shoulder against the wall and lumbered toward the top of the stairs. The pain in his skull pulsed sickly and his heart jackhammered in his chest.

At the top of the stairs, he held fast to the railing and descended, forcing himself to go slowly. At the bottom, he rounded the newel post and staggered into the kitchen. The pain was worse, his nausea threatening to overwhelm him; the world blurred and doubled. He tripped over something and crashed to the floor, a jagged piece of wood streaking across his left cheek and ripping the skin. He blinked, and his vision resolved. Detective Rudd lay on his back, tacky bloody drying on his chin and staining his white undershirt. His arms were thrown out on either side of him, his jacket open. Lincoln's eyes went to the handle of the revolver nestled in his left armpit, and his heart missed a beat.

"HELP ME!"

Leni's voice, faint like the distant lament of a passing funeral procession and edged with hysteria. Licking his lips, Lincoln reached out and yanked the gun from its holster \; it was cold, heavy, and oily in his hand. The grip was black like coal and the body silver like ice.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Lincoln got to his feet and lurched back into the living room. His knees were stronger now, and he pushed away from the wall, his steps unsteady but sound enough.

The front door stood open, and he went through it, the cold air slapping his flush, sweaty face. He scanned the night; Leni limped down the opposite sidewalk, Ronnie Anne walking behind her, fifteen feet back, too close.

A toxic mixture of terror and rage blossomed in his chest, and he was going down the steps before he knew he was moving, his grasp on the gun tightening and his finger stroking the trigger guard. Lola's face, contorted in agony and terror, came back to him...Lucy's flesh on Ronnie Anne...Leni's eyes filling with horror as she dropped.

Them making love, making a child, making a life, a family, a family threatened now by Ronnie Anne Santiago.

He was walking faster, the pain buried under a layer of burning hatred that intensified with every step. Ahead, Leni stumbled, pitched forward, and fell to her knees. Ronnie Anne advanced on her, lifting the ax. Weeping and sputtering, Leni curled up in the fetal position and hugged her knees to her chest. Alone. Afraid. Preparing to die. Resigned to her fate and to the fact that her Lincy couldn't help her.

Ronnie Anne stopped, looming over the fallen girl, and hefted the ax. Leni shook and whimpered. Lincoln stepped onto the sidewalk. Ten feet away. Five. Still moving. Heart not beating. Lungs not working. Cold. Hard. Numb. Eyes locked on Ronnie Anne like laser guided missiles. "Ronnie," he said.

She turned, and when she saw him, she smiled...a warm, genuine, dreamy, lovestruck smile.

He lifted the gun and shot her, the report echoing like thunder. The round took her in the shoulder and pushed her back, the ax falling from her hands and clattering to the pavement. She gasped, in shock or pain he didn't know, and wounded disbelief filled her eyes.

He fired again and again; the second round slammed into her chest and the third blew out her throat in a mist of blood. She toppled back and landed on the ground hard, her head smacking the pavement with an audible crack.

Lincoln walked up and stood over her the way she had Leni. The color was rapidly draining from her face and blood trickled from the corners of her mouth; her chest expanded and contracted as she fought to breathe. From the gurgle in the back of her throat, blood was pooling in her lungs.

She turned her head to him, and he was taken aback by the _sadness_ he saw written upon her face. As though she were the victim and not him...as though she _hadn't_ killed Lola...as though she hadn't just been trying to kill Leni. In the street. Like an animal shown no mercy - his beautiful, sweet, tender, kind-hearted, wonderful Leni...the light of his life...the smile on his face...the reason he got up in the morning...the mother of his future children.

He glanced at her; she lay on the ground still, hugging herself and weeping. His heart shattered into a million pieces and dropped like ice into his stomach.

Ronnie Anne coughed, her lips wet with blood, and he turned back to her. "L-Lincoln…"

He aimed the gun at her forehead.

"I love y -"

 _BLAM!_

A hole appeared in the center of Ronnie Anne's forehead, and blood splattered the pavement. Her body jerked spasmodically, then twitched.

When she was limp, Lincoln blinked dumbly like a man waking from a trance. Sirens wailed mournfully in the distance, and Leni's soft weeping found his ears. He dropped the gun and turned, falling to one knee, his hands shaking and his heart kicking back to life. She lay on her side, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth like a girl who fell from her bike and hurt herself.

Lincoln dragged her in his arms and held her tight to his chest, his trembling fingers brushing through her sweaty hair. She buried her face into his chest and sobbed bitterly, her tears soaking into the front of his shirt. "It's okay," he said, unaware that he was crying now too, "it's all over...you're safe…"

She clutched desperately at him, as a drowning woman to her savior. He hugged her and smothered the top of her head with kisses.

"I won't let anything happen to you," he said through his tears, his voice cracking and lost under the swelling sirens. "I promise."

* * *

 **This isn't the end; there's a very short epilogue. I'll post it tomorrow or later tonight, I don't know.**


	7. Epilogue

**STR2D3PO** **: I was going to have her say "Here's Ronnie!" but I felt like that might be just a little too over the top. This isn't the most serious story ever, but, I think that would have been really silly.**

 **HangingSoul: Sure, I just need to find the time. I'll get to it soon, though.**

 **Guest: You're not wrong about the series of events not making a whole lot of sense. Rather than describe her getting in, I wanted to leave an air of mystery. For what its worth, here's what I think happened: After finding the back door locked, she went around front, climbed onto the porch roof, then got in through a gable vent. She came out of the attic, went into Lola's room, and took up position in the closet while she was downstairs. Next she slipped into Lucy's room, killed her, then dressed up as her and went downstairs to kill whoever was there. Rudd was asleep, so she went into the kitchen to see if anyone else was around, then heard him waking up.**

 **Everyone: All of the OCs in this were named after rock musicians. Robert Palmer (the** _ **Addicted to Love**_ **guy); Stuart Cook (drummer for Creedence Clearwater Revival); Bon Scott and Brian Johnson (the former and current lead singer of AC/DC respectively); and Phil Rudd (the drummer of AC/DC). Rudd's first name was Phil but before posting the story, I changed it because he looked more like a Frank to me.**

* * *

Lincoln started awake in his bed, a sound that he couldn't place echoing in the chambers of his sleep fogged mind. Darkness held sway and for a terrible second he could _feel_ Ronnie Anne's presence. She stood in the shadows, glaring with red, burning eyes and clenched fists, trapped in-between life and death like a fly between window panes, unable to hurt him but always watching, and if the veil separating this world from the next were to even weaken, she would tear through and…

He swallowed thickly and closed that thought out before it could go any further. His brain was waking up and his thoughts were beginning to clear. Ronnie Anne was dead and no matter how much she may or may not hate him from the other side - if there even _was_ an 'other side' - she couldn't come back.

Something rustled to his left, and his heart blasted against his chest. Telling himself it was nothing, he forced himself to calmly reach for the lamp instead of shooting out his hand in a superstitious panic. Light flooded the room, and the little girl standing at his bedside winced tiredly. Her pale blonde hair was matted with sleep and a big red pillow mark covered the right side of her delicate face. She wore fuzzy pink pajamas and clutched the end of a blanket in one hand, the rest pooled on the floor beside her.

Lincoln's pounding heart calmed. "Lydia? What's wrong?" he asked.

"I hate a nightmare," she said grudgingly, her brown eyes darting shamefully to her feet. "Can I sleep with you and Mom?"

Eight-years-old and bright, Lydia was the kind of girl who did not like being thought of as a child. She read adult novels (after Lincoln scanned them to make sure they weren't _too_ adult), watched the evening news with him, and had always wound up the "mother" of every friend group she ever had, mediating arguments and making sure everyone was wearing their coat. Even so, sometimes when the lighting was just a _little_ too bright, the thunder a decibel too loud, or the nightmares a smidge too scary, she swallowed her pride and came to hunker with him and Leni. Lincoln secretly loved those nights because for just a couple hours, she was his little girl again and not the beautiful, intelligent young lady she was quickly becoming. Right now, she was on the cusp, straddling two worlds. In another year or so, this wouldn't happen anymore, and he intended to enjoy it while he could.

"Of course," he smiled and glanced at the other side of the bed. Leni was curled up on the edge, humped under the blankets. Beside her, Ilena, their six-year-old, lay on her back, snoring. Next to her, on his stomach, was Nickolaus, five. At the foot, the twins, Chloe and York, two and as identical as a boy and girl can be, snuggled together facing each other, the back of York's hand resting on his sister's face and a long, silvery ribbon of drool coursing down the side of Chloe's mouth.

He frowned.

No room.

He looked at Lydia and cocked his head in thought. "How about I sleep in your bed with you?"

She considered for a moment, then nodded. "Okay."

Swinging his legs out from under the covers, Lincoln got to his feet and switched the light off, then followed Lydia to the room she shared with Ilena. She went confidently ahead, bold because her dad was with her and thus nothing bad could happen, and jumped on the downy bed. Lincoln smiled fondly as she got under the covers, then slid in beside her. "I like your bed," he said as he settled into a comfortable position.

"Me too," she said, "it's really cozy. Too cozy sometimes."

The fact that she didn't want to get out of it most mornings determined that to be the truth.

"My bed's hard."

"I know," she said, "it's like a rock."

"Your mom likes the bed firm."

"Get a Sleep Number," she said, "you can adjust your side to be soft."

He grinned. "Maybe."

For a long time, neither spoke, and Lincoln started to drift off. He was almost asleep when Lydia spoke, her voice halting. "I'm scared to go back to sleep."

"Why?" Lincoln asked and wrapped his arm protectively around his daughter.

She scooted closer to him, and that's when he noticed she was trembling in fright. "That dream was really scary."

"What was it about?" he asked.

She didn't reply for a moment. "I can't really remember, but there was a really weird Hispanic lady." She shuddered, and the hairs on the back of Lincoln's neck stood up. What she said next petrified him, and he started to shake too.

"She was really mad...and said _she_ should be my mommy."

 **Spooky.**


End file.
